Breaking Bonds
by Write Here2
Summary: When a single mother is murdered in her Manhattan apartment, the team must pull together to find her killer. Sequel to 'Poison Pen'.
1. Chapter 1

-1DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - I wasn't going to do a sequel to Poison Pen, but certain loose ends needed to be tied up. Therefore, here is the follow-up to my first story. Hope you enjoy.

Mac rolled his shoulder back. It was still stiff from his confrontation with Timothy Baywater more than six months ago. He had been forced to take three months off work, and when he had returned, the Chief had given him the dressing down of his life. Mac winced at the memory. The worst part about it was that he knew the Chief was right. He shook himself, trying to loosen up muscles, and went back to the massive stack of paperwork.

The others were all busy on cases. Stella, he remembered, was testifying in court. It was a robbery, from some time ago, that had been delayed after first the defendant, then the judge, fell ill. Stella knew her work though, and she would have no trouble demonstrating that the defendant was guilty. Danny was having kittens over a piece of lost evidence that might have become vital in a home invasion case. He was currently retracing its steps, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

The phone rang startling Mac, and making him jump. He looked around sheepishly, glad that no-one had seen that, and picked it up.

"Taylor."

"Mac, it's Hawkes." The younger man had been sent out to investigate a robbery in a convenience store.

"How's the case?"

There was a pregnant pause. "The owner is waving a baseball bat around, and demanding to speak to my boss."

Mac fought the urge to say something uncomplimentary about ungrateful civilians, and sighed. "Put me on speaker." he said.

A moment later, Mac could hear the insane ramblings of the shop owner. Evidently he was not a man who supported racial equality laws. He made a split second decision.

"Hello? That Mr Taylor?"

"It's Detective Taylor. What is your name, sir?"

The man introduced himself as Stephen Rowlings. A memory stirred in the back of Mac's mind. Stephen Rowlings… He shook his head, unable to place the man.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked calmly.

Rowlings launched into a tirade. His shop had been robbed three times and broken into four times within six years. A temper could have been forgiven, but the man's vitriol and racism was totally unacceptable. Mac shook his head, half-glad that he wasn't down there.

"Mr Rowlings, I have the utmost faith in my CSI's ability to do his job. If you don't want him there, fine. But don't expect us to send anyone else." Mac said coldly.

A silence fell over the other end of the phone.

"Fine. I don't want him here. Fine, fine. See how you like it when I go to the papers and tell them the NYPD doesn't care about the little guys like me."

It was times like this, Mac thought wearily, rubbing his forehead, that he wished he had given into the temptation to quit during the Baywater incident. "You do that, Mr Rowlings. It is your perogative."

The background noise dropped suddenly, as the speaker function was switched off. "You're sure about this, boss?"

"Yes. Get back to the lab, Danny needs help on his case."

"Which one, the home invasion or the missing evidence?"

Mac snorted. "You tell me."

He hung up the phone, and tried to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him. He had been neglecting it, if he was honest. Mac's patience for paperwork was limited. In any case, they had been very busy in the previous few weeks. The criminals seemed to be coming out of the woodwork. Every tech in the fingerprint, trace, and DNA labs was working flat out. The situation wasn't helped by the brass's sudden insistence on cutting costs. Mac was having to justify the need for every expensive test his team or the assorted techs carried out under his watch. _Hence_, the CSI groaned inwardly, _all the paperwork_.

It was there that Danny found him two and a half hours later, with the stack considerably reduced. Messer was carrying three cups of coffee, and was followed by Hawkes, who had in his hands a bag of pastries. Mac looked up and threw down his pen. He gratefully accepted the coffee, and a danish. The two younger men made themselves comfortable in the two visitors' chairs.

"So," Mac asked suspiciously, "what's going on?"

Danny took a large gulp of coffee. "Can't a guy-" He bit into his own danish. "-bring his boss coffee and food without getting the third degree?"

Mac raised an eyebrow. They didn't need him to answer that. He was surprised when the native New Yorker explained that not only had they tracked down the missing piece of evidence, but they had found their suspect's fingerprints all over it. The item in question was a carving knife. Apparently it had been in the DNA lab all along, although no-one seemed to be sure why. The blood from the blade was being tested, and they fully expected it to match the victim - a sixty-two year old businessman.

"The poor guy," Danny explained, "was blindfolded. Then he's cut across the chest, as a warning. Gave up the code to his safe straight away."

"Can't blame him." Sheldon said.

"Anyway, we're celebrating the discovery of the knife by drinking good coffee."

There was only one place in the entire building where you could get a good cup of coffee. That was from Louise Richmond, who worked in document analysis. She had her personal supply of coffee beans, which Mac understood were quite expensive. Getting her to part with them usually required some form of bribery. He wondered how Danny had managed it. Sipping his coffee gingerly, Mac decided that whatever it was, it had been worth it.

The phone rang. Mac swallowed a small mouthful of coffee and grabbed it. "Taylor." He listened carefully for a few seconds. "We'll be there in half an hour."

"Break time over, huh?" Danny sighed.

"Back to work." Mac agreed, on his way to the door. "Dead body in an Fifth Avenue apartment."


	2. Chapter 2

-DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - Second story, and hugs to anyone from the reviews in that last one. Please enjoy….. Oh, warning, this is a chapter that I'm not all that pleased with. Just can't figure out what I don't like about it…

A/N - Further to the note above - I have changed the ending of this chapter, and am reposting it, cos I wrote a chapter I quite liked which annoyingly didn't fit in at all. Didn't want to start a new story and leave y'all hanging. Plus, its sparked off some ideas about where this could all go. Yay!

* * *

It was, Sheldon decided, a tragic misuse of a great apartment. The hallway was decorated top to bottom in eye-watering flowery wallpaper - pink, yellow, and red blooms clashed with the hot pink borders. The long bookcase, and the hall table were covered in drooping cloths, edged with lace. They reminded him of oversized hankies. The only thing that was out of place in this designers' nightmare was the streak of blood running almost the entire length of the hall. Mac joined him, having checked a few things with the officers guarding the apartment's entrance. 

"Wow."

Sheldon nodded. "Yeah."

The two men walked carefully through to the main living area. It was huge, encompassing a lounge, kitchen, and dining room, in open-plan. It was just as hideous as the hallway. The flowery wallpaper made a reappearance on the wall they stood next to - Sheldon supposed it was intended to link the whole apartment together - but the rest of it was painted pink. A flowery wallpaper border had been added for effect. Almost everything was decorated in clashing shades of pink, red, and yellow. The thick black curtains were out of place.

Sheldon took the lead through the room. The body lay half-in, half-out of the kitchen area, face down. Judging from the mess the room was in, she had put up a fight. Sheldon took a closer look. There were cuts all along her lower arms and hands. _Defensive wounds_, he thought.

"Looks like the victim owned the place." Mac said. "Aida Davies. An aunt left it to her about five years ago."

Sheldon looked up from his position crouched near the body. "There's toys in this place. Where's the kid?"

"Neighbours say the daughter is staying with her fraternal grandparents, out near Vermont."

In fact the neighbours had been very informative. The officers had learned that the dead woman's child, a two-year old girl, was the result of a very short-lived marriage. Although Aida and her ex-husband were not on good terms, the grandparents had never been anything but supportive. Little was known about them, except that they were from New Hampshire, somewhere near Vermont. They also saw the little girl - Edie - once a month, alternating between visiting New York, and taking her to New Hampshire. Edie was due back in two days.

The CSIs started cataloguing and searching the room, working in a spiral pattern. Photos were taken first - Sheldon was acting as crime scene photographer - and then the evidence was physically collected. Mac started on the inside of the spiral, Sheldon on the outside. They had done it so many times that it all came naturally.

After about five minutes, Mac stopped by the couch. He surveyed the cushions, which were spattered with dark red stains. He turned to look at the body, and began theorizing. There seemed to be no good reason for Aida Davies to be where she was. If the fight for her life had started here, on the couch, then surely the most obvious routes would have been either to the hallway, or the open window. He frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Meanwhile, Sheldon was looking at the window itself. He dusted the sill, and the handles for prints, hoping to find something.

A boyish grin appeared on his face. "Mac, got a print over here." he called out. He wasn't surprised when his boss didn't reply - Mac would be too absorbed in whatever it was he was doing.

Sheldon took out a piece of lifting tape, and pressed it delicately to the handle. He pulled it away, and sealed the print in. Holding it up to the light, it was possible to make out clearly defined ridges. He collected several more prints off the sill, and one from the glass itself. Chances were, they would all belong to Aida and her daughter, but it was a start.

* * *

Stella strode out of the courtroom wishing very, very deeply that she hadn't bothered to get out of bed that morning. Her evidence had been damning, but the trial itself was turning into a bit of a farce. Two jurors had called in sick the day before. Both had returned for her evidence, but now everything had been set back. Added to that, the air conditioning in the courtroom wasn't working properly, and New York City was unseasonably warm. A headache had started just behind her left eye prior to giving evidence, and the defence lawyer was someone she had once had a short fling with. All in all, Stella's day had been a disaster. 

She hoped that the lab was calmer. The last she'd heard was that Mac had been rescued from his paperwork, and was at a crime scene with Sheldon. Danny was stuck in the lab, following up on evidence in his home invasion case, and helping with the backlog in Trace. Stella strongly suspected that Danny's help specifically consisted of processing the things that were relevant to another case he was working on. She fought the urge to call in sick and go home to bed.

"Hey, Stel."

She looked up to see Flack leaning against his car. A smile brightened her features. "Hey."

"How did it go?"

"Don't ask."

"That good, huh?"

"My evidence was fine. It was everything else that was the problem."

Flack grinned. "Well, you're gonna be happy about this."

"Why do I think you might be lying?"

He gestured for her to get into the car. A resigned Stella got in, and waited until Flack had driven away from the sidewalk before asking what this was all about. The detective winced.

'What is it, Flack?"

He looked dutifully ahead at the road - not so much because it was the safe thing to do, although it was - but because he didn't really want to catch his friend's eye. "Mac wants you at a scene down on West 27th. Murder in a bar."

Flack chewed at his lip. He didn't need to tell Stella that there was a lot of pressure on them to get results.


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER - I wish! Yeah, still not mine. 

A/N - And this is the chapter which made me change the previous chapter. Hope you like it.

* * *

The room was quiet as the grave. Ironic, considering that they were standing in one of the hottest clubs in New York. Black drapes lined the walls, and blood-red sofas were crammed into booths along one wall. There were no windows - this place was underground - but there were two massive vents, one by the back wall, and one over the bar. The stairs came down between the two. The bar itself was three-quarters the length of one wall, which finished off in the entrance to another room - the VIP area, according to the club's owner.  
Stella looked around with amusement. Places like this had never really been her thing. Looking at it now, she was remembering why. The atmosphere was claustrophobic. She set down her field kit, and cast her eye around the place. There was no body here. That was in the VIP room. She was looking to get a feel for the place.

"Like it?"

Stella turned to see the owner, Blake Donnelly, walking down the stairs. He was exactly the kind of slimy creep that made her hate bars like this one. Dressed head to toe in Armani, he looked good, and he knew it.

"It's not my kind of thing." she answered honestly.

"Shame. You'd look good here."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes took a lot of effort. "Why are you down here, Mr. Donnelly? And how did you get past the four police officers?"

He shrugged. "A little charm and a lot of luck. To answer your first question, I wanted to know what was going on."

"You're not allowed to be down here."

The first signs that his arrogance was faltering appeared. Donnelly's smirk drooped. She doubted he was told 'no' very often. He regained control quickly, but the illusion of self-confidence was shattered. Whether Donnelly knew it or not, he was a deeply insecure person. Stella wondered if the clothes and the bar were ways of covering that up. The CSI reminded herself sharply that she was not a psychologist or a psychiatrist.

"She's right, Donnelly. Get back upstairs. One of the officers will interview you."

Stella smiled at the sound of Flack's voice. Over the years they had known each other, they had become good friends. Stella counted herself very lucky that she knew the detective. He came down the stairs as Donnelly made his way up. As usual, Flack was dressed professionally - suit (which really needed replacing), good shoes (which she knew had a good grip - all the better for chasing suspects with), and a tie. The tie was a present from the lab.

He had gotten into their good books quite recently, actually. Around four months after the business with Timothy Baywater, the brass had started counting the pennies. They had threatened to cut the overall crime scene investigation budget - equipment, tests, CSIs, and most of all. techs - by nearly twenty percent. Flack and a number of others had stood in front of their bosses and argued against the idea. They hadn't been wholly successful, but the techs had appreciated the effort. It was, however, not a particularly good tie.

"Had a look at the body yet?" he asked.

Stella shook her head. "I was waiting for you."

Flack sighed. "Had to check something with the guys upstairs."

He lead her through to the VIP area. This was only marginally more tasteful in its furnishings. Stella supposed they had lavished a lot of money on this venture, and this area in particular. There was a small bar next to the door. The rest of the room consisted of five small tables with chairs, sofas and armchairs against the walls, and a tiny stage opposite the bar. It was decorated in deep purple, black, and gold.

"Wow."

"Wow is right." Flack said. "They spent almost a million dollars on this place. It's already made five times that."

"Really?"

He nodded as he beckoned for her to follow him. "It's the place to be."

"And how do you know that, Flack?"

The detective grinned, and shook his head. Whatever he had been doing, he wasn't telling her. Stella made a mental note to bug him about it later, which she immediately forgot about when he stopped in front of a poorly lit corner of the room. One of the drapes had come away from the wall, and was piled up on the backs of the sofas. Lying across a plush black and purple sofa, with gold trimmings, was the body of a young woman. She looked to be around her late teens or early twenties, and was dressed for clubbing. Short black skirt, ice-blue backless halter neck top, and black high-heeled shoes. The heels had to be at least four inches, and were probably a good deal more than that.

"Bartender found her this morning, when he was cleaning up."

Stella listened as Flack explained why the young woman's body had not been discovered till now. Apparently, the place was popular with the city's sports teams. Several of the Yankees players had been out celebrating another win when two drunken men had confronted them. They had accused the players of cheating. A brawl had broken out, which broke one of the massive black drapes. It had fallen across the sofas and the dance floor. A couple of people had been trapped beneath it, but they had quickly escaped. The bar had been emptied by the bouncers, who decided to wait till morning before tidying up the mess. In the end, they had not moved the fallen material until about two in the afternoon.

"And she had to wait." Stella said softly, shaking her head.

Flack nodded. "Bartender called it in. He was hysterical."

The CSI began a slow walk around the area near the body. There were plenty of signs of the brawl. Blood, broken glass, and even a tooth. She crouched down next to it.

"What do you think, Flack? A Yankees pre-molar?"

"Nah. Bartender says the Yankees won the fight." the detective said, moving to stand by her shoulder.

"Shame."

Flack frowned. "Why's that?" he asked in confusion.

Stella shrugged. "There's always a sucker on e-bay."


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER - I don't own it. Promise to look after them (ish).

A/N - Sorry I haven't updated in what, for me, is AGES. I just got a new job, and so there's been less writing time. Also have had major plot problems. Most of those are now ironed out, thanks to fruitbat00. Your help has been invaluable, and so a large piece of fudge and a mug of hot chocolate to you. Oh and to all of you, thanks for reading. Keep doing that! (and please review :-) ).

* * *

Stella strode through the stark, functional corridors of the lab, a vital piece of evidence in her hands. It had been packed into a paper bag, to prevent contamination. She waved to Louise Richmond, who (as always) was tucked away in her tiny office with two other techs.

"If it's not hers, then whose is it?"

Recognizing Sheldon's voice coming from the small evidence room just up on her left, Stella smiled. She stopped at the doorway. Mac and Sheldon were standing over a table full of papers, evidence bags, and boxes.

"Hey guys." she said.

Sheldon looked up and smiled warmly. "Hey Stella."

Mac had been distracted by a particular piece of evidence. He had a shirt spread out in front of him - the one that Aida Davies had been wearing when she died. It was covered with blood. Leaning over his shoulder, Stella tried to figure out what it was that had him so interested. She saw it straight away. High up on the left shoulder, near the collar, there were several drops of blood. The shape of them was consistent with dripping from directly above.

"That's not her blood…" Stella murmured. The overheard words made more sense now.

Her friend and boss turned away from the table. He stopped short, wincing. Mac's hand went to his shoulder.

"Mac, are you OK?"

His face was stony. "I'm fine." he spat.

It was too late if he had hoped to cover it up. Sheldon was already there, waiting to check the shoulder, whether Mac liked it or not. They engaged in a silent battle of wills, before Mac turned away. He muttered something under his breath. Neither Stella nor Sheldon could make it out, but they got the sentiment.

"Fine." he eventually said. "Not here."

He strode off. Stella badly wanted to follow, but instead she stayed behind to keep an eye on the evidence whilst Sheldon followed their boss. She had no doubt that if there was something wrong, the quiet CSI would find out what it was.

* * *

Mac sat on the bench, his shirt unbuttoned and slid off one shoulder. He had carefully schooled his features for an air of nonchalance. He was pretty sure it wasn't working. Sheldon had followed him patiently to the locker room. Whilst Mac was waiting, Sheldon was washing his hands. It was, so the doctor claimed, a force of habit.

The taller man bent down to take a closer look. The joint looked a little swollen. Sheldon's critical eye picked up on the redness that had started to creep into the area. He stepped back, and leant against the lockers. Mac immediately buttoned up his shirt.

"You have to have that looked at." Before his boss could get a retort in, Sheldon held up a hand. "I'm not talking about a thirty second examination in the locker room at work. I mean a real examination, at a hospital."

Sheldon waited a few seconds for a response. When he didn't get one, the normally mild-mannered man threw up his hands in despair. He crouched down, to catch Mac's eyes. When he was confident that he had regained the older man's attention, Sheldon straightened up. He sighed heavily.

"I think it's infected. Or maybe just aggravated. I can't be sure."

"I have an appointment for later today. Around eight o'clock." Mac admitted. "It's been getting worse."

The bullet wound that had ripped a hole in his shoulder six months ago had healed remarkably fast. All Mac's doctors had been pleased by his progress after an initially poor recovery - a nasty infection had taken hold in the wound site. His course of physiotherapy had finished five months after the shooting. Though it should have gone on longer, Mac hadn't been able to face any more time in that hospital. He had been certified fully fit to return to work (for more than desk duty) two months previously. It had been a great relief. Stubbornness and a dread that he might have to take more time off had kept Mac from having his shoulder re-examined.

In the end though, he had admitted defeat. Mac had called for the appointment after going to the scene of a robbery. He had finished his work at the small house where it had taken place, and had loaded much of the evidence away. The final piece to get packed was his field kit. Not thinking, Mac had picked it up with his bad shoulder.

He couldn't remember much, except agonizing pain. It had erupted in his shoulder. Mac recalled dropping his field kit, and grabbing the joint, trying to hold back the pain. It had hurt too much, too suddenly to cry out. The one coherent thought that had passed through his head was that he was glad none of his team were there. It had taken him an hour to leave after that. The pain kept throbbing in his shoulder, all day. It hadn't really let up since.

Mac glanced up at Sheldon. The man did have the best of intentions, even if his efforts to help were intrusive. He offered a small nod. The younger CSI took the hint, and left his boss alone in the locker room.

Mac called out to him. "Get that shirt to DNA."

"No problem, Mac."

He smiled briefly, staring at the door. "And I bet you already examined those hairs too."

They had found three or four short, dark hairs that did not belong to Aida Davies on her sofa. Several more had shown up around her home. Apparently the daughter was blonde, like her mother. The grandparents were gray and balding, so they were out of the picture, as was their red-head son. For an investigation still in its very earliest stages, Mac was feeling quite confident about it,

They had tried contacting the ex-husband again. Messages had been left at his house, his work, and anywhere in-between that they could think of. Homicide detectives had been interviewing Davies' neighbours. They were not a friendly bunch. Few even knew who the young woman was. Mac shook his head at the memory. One woman had gone so far as demanding that they leave the building. Something about preserving the peace and the good name of the place. His lip curled at the thought of her callousness. The CSI promised himself that they would catch Aida Davies' killer.


	5. Chapter 5

-DISCLAIMER - Don't own it.

A/N - Just a quick note - thanks for reviews and reading, guys. Much appreciated. Things are starting to get going with this story - as can be seen in this chapter… Oooo…

* * *

Stella walked into the autopsy with her stomach churning. It wasn't the smell of death that lived in this place, or the dead body. Concern for Mac Taylor was upsetting her. Sheldon's assurance that he had already booked a hospital appointment for later that day were not quite sufficient to erase her worries. She had her fingers mentally crossed that it was a simple aggravation of the old injury that could be cured by resting the joint. It would mean more time off work for a man who was a confirmed workaholic, but that was better than the alternative.

The body was already laid out, ready for examination. Medical examiner Sid Hammerback was whistling to himself softly as he made sure all the instruments were laid out in the correct order. Usually he would have had an assistant there, but said assistant had a family emergency, from what Stella could gather. Thus, Sid was working alone today.

"Hey." she said quietly, by way of greeting.

He looked up and smiled. "Hello. You're in good time."

Stella returned the gesture. "Well - I couldn't miss this one."

He nodded. It was, he felt, always unpleasant to carry out an autopsy on someone so young. Sid felt he was lucky that the CSIs in this building were so diligent. It made his own work more relevant.

"Victim is a Caucasian female - in her late teens or early twenties. She is-" Sid paused to take measurements. "-approximately five feet tall."

Stella took a step back as Sid walked round to the opposite side of the table. He talked his way through the initial examination - a tape was recording everything so that he could more easily type the information up later. She had no doubt that he could do it from memory though.

Twenty-five minutes later, the requisite samples had been taken from the exterior of the body. Photographs had been taken, and the clothes removed. Sid was beginning the internal examination when Stella realised what the time was.

"I have to check on the DNA lab." she said, feeling a little guilty.

Sid nodded. "I'll call you if anything particularly interesting comes up." he promised.

While Stella caught up with the stressed techs in the DNA lab, Sheldon and Mac were taking another look at the hairs and the prints they had found in Aida Davies' apartment. The prints were not a match either to Davies herself, or to her daughter. They were, as yet, an unknown quantity. And adding to the confusion of both CSIs, they were not a match to the ex-husband, or anybody in the state and national databases. DNA had confirmed that whoever the donor of the mystery blood was, they were not Aida, her daughter, or the grandparents. They had run only the simplest tests on the blood so far, finding blood type. The more expensive tests would have to wait somewhere in the backlog, despite being high priority.

"The hairs don't have follicles attached. They probably fell out naturally." Sheldon said. "And they could have been there for any length of time."

Mac chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I think it's time we talked to Aida's friends."

* * *

Aida's friends turned out to be very few and far between. She worked at a property development firm, as a PA to one of the senior directors. Her contact with the rest of the employees was mostly in a professional context. They had depicted her as a friendly, but strict woman, who didn't allow her personal life to cross over into work. Sheldon was immediately reminded of his boss. He kept that thought to himself.

The CSIs and Detective Bradwen soon found that Aida had confided in two of her colleagues - both also PAs to management. Only one of them was working - the other had been on holiday in Florida for two weeks. The former was a woman in her early fifties, Rose Litchfield. The quartet had been directed to an empty conference room to talk.

"I can't believe she's dead." Rose sobbed.

Sheldon laid a hand on her shoulder. "We're sorry for your loss. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?"

"If it will help."

"Was there anyone bothering Aida? Anyone who had been causing her trouble?"

Rose's expression darkened. "Only her ex-husband."

"What can you tell us about him?" Bradwen cut in.

"He was always a nasty piece of work, Detective. Someone I advised Aida to get rid of as soon as she could. You wonder why she had so few close friends round here? Look at him."

She explained that the ex-husband - Richard - had been a controlling presence in her friend's life, never allowing her to have a life away from him. In the end, Aida had found the strength to break away from him. Ever since, he had been hassling her about contact with their two-year old daughter.

"I can't think of anyone else." Rose said, dabbing at her reddened eyes with a tissue.

"What about her boyfriend?" Bradwen asked.

Rose smiled. "He was nice. Treats - treated - her with respect. No, he was a good find."

The three investigators exchanged glances. This investigation was rapidly reaching a point where they had nothing to go on.

"When did Mr Davies see her last?"

Rose looked confused. "Mr Davies? That used to be his name, Detective," she said to Bradwen, "but he changed it just after they separated."

Mac sat up straight. The poor woman looked almost intimidated by the three men hanging on her every word, but it was essential that they got their answers.

Detective Bradwen took charge again. "What did he change it to, Ms. Litchfield?"

She straightened her own stance, recognising that she had become very important. "He used his own middle name, and his mother's maiden name. Marcus Davies became Blake Donnelly."


	6. Chapter 6

-DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - Hmmm, feeling the story flowing now, hooray! Should be more soon.

* * *

"Stella." 

She didn't hear him the first, second, or third time, so Mac walked up to her, and placed a firm hand over the page she was reading. Stella jumped, and turned round, ready to admonish him. The first thing the CSI noticed though, was the thick sling supporting her boss's shoulder.

"You actually went?"

Mac raised an eyebrow. "To the doctor? Yes."

He didn't elaborate, but Stella was relieved. There was no way he would have been able to come into the lab if it was anything really serious.

"I was just reviewing the information on our girl in the club."

"Spoken to the owner?"

Stella turned her chair round. "Yes." She waited. "Also known as Marcus Davies, I believe?"

The story had spread around the lab fast after Sheldon had mentioned it to Danny. He had already heard about the other case, and had passed the news on in turn to Stella.

"You think there's a connection?" Stella asked.

Mac shrugged - and wished he hadn't. Rubbing his shoulder, he took a seat. "I think we have to work two cases."

* * *

Flack sat opposite the bartender. The other man was tall, and supremely confident. He sat back in his chair, body lounging as if he were in his own home. The detective had loathed him on sight. There was little doubt in Flack's mind that Allan Rossiter was innocent of murder. There was also little doubt that he was guilty of something else. 

He slammed a file down on the table in front of Rossiter. The bartender didn't so much as flinch. He returned Flack's steely look with one of arrogance.

"You gonna tell me what happened that night?"

Rossiter shrugged. "Not much to tell. The place was busy, as always."

The detective could imagine. He had been dragged there once, by friends, and under protest. The place had been so busy it took thirty minutes to get a drink at the bar. He vaguely remembered the man sitting in front of him.

Rossiter explained that he had been rushed off his feet all night. There were any number of people who would confirm his story. Plus, there were two newly-installed cameras behind the bar. It would be easy enough to check.

"The fight started about two in the morning. Some guys - they were pretty drunk - started hitting on this girl. They didn't realise she was spoken for."

Flack sat back, mirroring Rossiter's relaxed pose. "By one of the baseball players?"

Rossiter sniffed. "Looked that way to me. Next thing I know, the guy's being slammed into the wall, and his buddies are startin' something with the goddamned Yankees." He looked Flack in the eye. "That just ain't good for business."

The bartender's confidence wavered for a moment as he described how the scene had turned into an all-out brawl. The bar's four biggest bouncers - each topping six foot four, and weighing in at over two hundred pounds - had weighed in. For a moment, it had looked like the whole place would be wrecked. From what Flack had gathered, Rossiter was essentially in charge when Donnelly wasn't there. _Which could be, _the detective thought,_ the reason he's looking so nervous right now._

"We tidied up best we could, after we kicked all the troublemakers out. No need to involve anyone else."

"No need-?" Flack stopped himself short, and gestured for Rossiter to go on.

The bartender suddenly found the table very interesting. His easy confidence was apparently all for show. "We didn't want to clean everything up. It was nearly five by the time all the glass had been moved."

"So you left the curtain till morning?"

"That was the plan."

Donnelly had come back to the city unexpectedly early. He had stormed into the bar, absolutely furious. It wasn't until just after one that he had gathered all the information he wanted from his staff, and made the appropriate reports to the police. As the situation had been dealt with, and there had been no complaints from the public, there had been little fuss. Once Donnelly had stopped yelling, the staff had started trying to move the heavy curtain that had fallen to the floor.

"That was when we found the body." Rossiter ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I never saw a man Ozzy's size scream so loud."

"Ozzy?"

"One of the bouncers. We call him that, 'cos he's gotta be just crazy enough to bite the head off a bat."

Flack made a note to speak to all the bouncers - particularly the squeamish Ozzy. If the guy was going to be nervous about the situation anyway, then he might let something slip that he wasn't supposed to.

"You know the girl?"

Rossiter shook his head. "Maybe I saw her a couple of times at the bar, but I didn't know her."

"Did you know that she was underage?"

The bartender sat up. "She wasn't. She had to have I.D. No way she gets in without it."

"You're telling me, that unlike every other place in the city, yours never let in one underage kid?" Flack snapped. He was leaning across the table now, getting in Rossiter's face.

The bartender's change in attitude was dramatic. Where he had been lying around in his chair, confident and smirking, he was now sitting up, tense and frowning. He chewed his lip.

"Maybe a couple of kids-" Rossiter paused. "-I ain't saying I knew anything about this, else I'd have stopped it."

"I understand, Allan."

"Maybe - a couple of kids got in by - persuading the bouncers."

Flack got the reference straight away. It was one he'd heard before. Young people, usually girls, got into places they weren't nearly old enough to be, by offering the bouncers something they were too old to accept. He had seen girls that would give oral sex to just about anybody for the chance to get into the hottest bars.

The detective leant right across the desk, and grabbed a fistful of Rossiter's shirt. "You wanna see if you remember her now?"

Flack pushed a photo of the girl into Rossiter's face. The bartender shut his eyes. He pushed himself away from the table, suddenly frantic.

"I think - she might be called Jenny." he said, breathing heavily. "Yeah, Jenny."

Flack stood up. He took the photo, and tucked it back into the file. "You might have just saved your ass."


	7. Chapter 7

-DISCLAIMER - Not mine. Hmph.

A/N - Not fond of this chapter. Grr. Oh well. It's a necessary one to move things along. Please review. Chocolate fudge cake or strawberry tart for those who do... ;)

* * *

Flack's optimism quickly waned when it transpired that the bouncers were all refusing to speak to the police. He suspected that Donnelly had warned them not to. The owner of the bar/club - Pharoah's - was someone clearly used to skirting around the law. He had been contacted, and was coming in to speak to the police on both the Pharoah case and the murder of his ex-wife. Donnelly had not sounded devastated about the latter, though he had checked immediately that his daughter was OK. Flack's low opinion of the man had not changed very much.

Nobody was surprised when the man in question strolled in more than forty minutes late. He was clad in pristine Armani. Flack tried not to compare appearances. His suit was fine - just ageing. Shopping really was not the detective's favourite activity.

He watched as Donnelly was lead to an interview room by one of the uniformed officers. The kid was new to the area - out of Boston, originally - and Flack couldn't remember his name. The lawyer followed them.

"You want me there?"

Flack glanced sideways at Stella and shook his head. "I think it might distract."

Stella frowned. "I would think distracting your suspect is a good thing."

The detective started to walk away. He paused, and grinned. "Who says I was talking about him?"

Stella laughed, her bad mood lifted.

* * *

Mac had agreed to let the interview concerning Jenny take place first. He had stayed in the lab, trying to figure out what was wrong about some of the blood patterns in the apartment. The blood on the sofa had been fully typed and examined. It matched their murder victim.

Aida Davies' new boyfriend, Fred McAllister, had returned from his business trip to San Diego. The man had been in a terrible state, but had immediately allowed them to take fingerprints and blood. The fingerprint matched the one found on the window, but the mystery blood evidence was not consistent with McAllister's blood type.

Now he was staring at all the information they had gathered so far, trying to puzzle things out. Sheldon had gone to take a look at the body with Sid Hammerback, whose usual assistant had been called away on a family emergency. Between the two of them, they were sure to find something interesting. Like the other sections of the lab, Sid's work had been scaled back according to 'budget cutbacks'. Mac had already called the Chief, who had more or less ignored him.

The experienced CSI shook his head angrily. If they didn't start looking after the lab, guilty people would walk free. The lab techs were already talking about the possibility of organizing a response. He didn't want to think about the chaos a strike might cause. Mac went back to his files, and tried to concentrate.

* * *

Danny sat in the break room, flicking rubber bands against the wall. He was bored. His case was almost done, and with his overtime frozen, he couldn't stay any longer. The CSI took a gulp of lukewarm coffee, and contemplated the tiles on the ceiling.

"Having fun?"

He jumped, and clamped a hand to his thudding chest. "Funny, Monroe."

Lindsey grinned as she slouched into the armchair. "Yeah, it was."

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Thanks very much."

Danny scowled. "You know what I mean. Aren't you still supposed to be on vacation?"

Lindsey sprawled out on her chair, and put her feet up on the battered old coffee table. "It was boring."

"Relaxing and having fun is boring?"

"It is if you go with Helena."

Lindsey had been invited on holiday with a friend, and her husband. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Very quickly, she had realised that her good friend was actually not the life-and-soul of anything, much less a party. So, to save feelings (and her own sanity), Lindsey claimed that she had been called back to work.

"You heard about these cases Mac and Stella are working?"

"No, Danny, I just got back." Lindsey said, rolling her eyes.

He gave a quick overview of both cases, starting with Aida Davies and ending with Jenny, the mystery girl from Pharaoh's. Lindsey listened with rapt attention. She had missed work.

"The ex-husband-"

"Marcus Davies, aka Blake Donnelly." Lindsey cut in.

"Yeah. Well, his parents said he was away on business. Turns out, he got back from the trip the night his ex-wife was murdered."

"Do they think he did it?"

Danny shrugged. "You know Mac. He's not saying. And Hawkes is busy at the autopsy. I haven't had a chance to ask."

He twisted round as Lindsey leapt to her feet. She stole Danny's coffee from the table, grimacing at the cold, bitter taste, and handed him the empty cup. He stared at it.

"That was mine."

Lindsey ruffled his hair. "Sucks to be you."

With that, the female CSI wandered out of the break room, in search of her boss. Hopefully she could return to work early, and help out in one of the two big cases of the moment. As long as she didn't get stuck helping Danny - he was going to be grouchy all day.


	8. Chapter 8

DISCLAIMER - Still not mine, despite crossing all my fingers. Darn.

A/N - OK, after the praise for rapid updating, I then take a break - sorry! Was a little discouraged - there seem to be plenty of people reading, and a core of you reviewing. Love the reviews, but need more of them, to be sure I'm taking this in the right direction! Anyways, work and life have gotten in the way, but finally here's chapter eight. Enjoy.

* * *

Donnelly's face twitched into uncertainty when Flack walked in alone. The detective had spooked him more than he liked to admit. He hid a smile, thinking of the female CSI who had confronted him at Pharoah's. She had been a real piece of work. Donnelly kept a carefully blank expression as Flack sat down.

"Mr Donnelly." he said. "Want to tell us what's going on at your club?"

The Armani-clad club owner shrugged. "I mostly keep behind the scenes. Rossiter keeps the place under control."

"Obviously not, because while you've got dollars on the brain, there's a brawl going on downstairs. And then a girl turns up dead in your VIP room." Flack paused for breath. "Want to try again?"

"I think you really ought to speak to Rossiter."

"We did."

Flack leant forward, fixing Donnelly with a cold gaze. He didn't like the guy any more this time round than he had at Pharoah's.

"According to Rossiter, this isn't the first time an underage girl has somehow gotten past your bouncers."

Donnelly ran a hand through his hair. "It's a constant problem. Fake I.D.'s are getting better all the time."

Even Flack had to sympathise there. The proliferation of good fakes had exploded with the spread of the internet. He had managed to catch a few kids trying to buy alcohol in his local store a few weeks previously. If he hadn't already known them, there was no way he would have been able to tell the I.D.s they had weren't real.

"I understand that, Donnelly. What I want to know is what you know about that night."

"I got there late. At first I went up to my office, and started working on some proposals for another bar me and my partners are planning." Donnelly said. "Then I hear this noise from downstairs-" He cleared his throat. "Usually, I can't hear a damn thing, but my door was open a little. I went down to investigate, and there's a brawl going on."

He looked the detective directly in the eye. There was a glint of worry creeping into the man's demeanour. For the first time, Flack felt himself beginning to believe the club owner.

"Detective - the first I knew about any of this is when Ozzy and the others picked up that goddamned curtain."

"You ever seen that girl before?"

He shook his head. Flack hadn't really expected him to say yes. After all, thousands of people went through the club's doors every week. The detective tapped his fingers on the battered old table.

"Ozzy is bringing in the security tapes. They're not very good, but - they're yours to do with as you wish." Donnelly sighed. "Now - about my ex-wife-"

Flack shook his head, abruptly cutting the other man off. "Not my case. Wait here, someone will come and talk to you."

He rose to his feet and left a much quieter Donnelly slumped in his chair.

* * *

Elsewhere in the building, Mac eased the bandage off his sore shoulder. He winced at the sharp pain that shot through the joint. It was stiff now. Rotating it carefully, the CSI boss decided that he would take his painkillers immediately after work. They were becoming an increasingly attractive option.

"You OK, boss?"

Mac turned towards his door. Danny was leaning against the doorway. "Fine. Come in."

The younger man obliged. He took a seat, managing to look as if there were no bones in his body. Mac tried to remember if he had ever looked that relaxed.

"You're done?"

"Nothing else I can do." Danny said.

Mac nodded. "Got another robbery for you. Details are-" he picked up a piece of paper from his desk, and handed it to Danny "-on here."

"Lindsey?"

"She's helping the techs clear some of the backlog." Mac explained.

Since the CSI was technically still supposed to be on vacation, her return could not be sanctioned under the new rules the brass was enforcing. They had, however, allowed that she might help out as an "unpaid consultant". Lindsey had been good enough to agree.

"What's going on upstairs, Mac?"

Mac shrugged, and nearly swore. "Uh - they went over budget. This is their way of overcompensating."

Danny shook his head. "It's stupid."

"I know. Don't you have some work to do?"

The younger man took the hint, and took off to process the crime scene of his latest case. Mac slid the bandage back onto his shoulder. He checked his watch. _Flack should be finishing with his Donnelly interview now_, the CSI thought. _My turn to figure this guy out_.

* * *

Donnelly was a much more subdued figure when Mac walked into the interview room with Detective Bradwen. The detective introduced them both, but the club owner barely looked up. It was dawning on him how much trouble he could be in.

"So, Mr Donnelly. Why did you change your name?" Bradwen asked.

He bit his lip. "Aida wouldn't."

It had been a messy divorce. Donnelly had been cheating on his wife for years, with various women. He had been found out when one of them sent a picture of herself to his cell-phone. Aida had taken their daughter, and moved into the apartment left to her by her elderly aunt.

"She refused to change her name, because she was a pain in the ass." Donnelly said. He bit at a fingernail. "I didn't want to be associated with her anymore."

"You had a child together." Bradwen prompted.

"Yeah. Yeah, we did - do - and believe me, that was the only thing that made me stop and think. But, I figured, name change or not, she's still my kid. So, I changed my name."

According to Donnelly, the problems after the divorce were Aida's fault. She had been difficult about allowing him to see their daughter. In the meantime, she had spread stories about him to all their mutual friends. Even his parents had ended up siding with her.

"I visited them once, up in Vermont. She was with them - and they wouldn't let me in the door." Donnelly spat angrily. "So yeah, I hated Aida." He softened for a second. "But I didn't always hate her. Our daughter was a reminder of that. No way I'd hurt Aida."

Mac studied the club owner. He had seemed such a brash, carefree man, but clearly there was more to him. The complex relationship between Donnelly and his ex-wife was going to complicate the investigation - his word against those of a dead woman.

"When was the last time you saw Aida?" Mac asked quietly.

Donnelly sighed. "The night she died." he admitted. "I went there to talk things over with her. Tried to - I don't know - apologise for my part in things." He looked both detectives in the eye. "Look, I know I'm an ass. Comes with the territory. And, yeah, I'm not the most faithful guy. But I did love her once, and I'm not a killer."

"We'd like to take fingerprints and DNA samples." Mac said.

"Go ahead. If it'll prove me innocent."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "The evidence will speak for itself." he said.


	9. Chapter 9

DISCLAIMER - Don't own it. Hmph.

A/N - Not the best chapter, in my humble opinion, but as I've been slacking recently, I thought I'd update fast again. Plus, I don't know what else I'd do to it. Anyways, hope you enjoy it. Please, please review. It really does help, especially if you pick out particular plot points/lines/whatever you particularly do/don't like. Thanks!

* * *

Stella yawned as she walked into the lab. The late night she had put in on the Pharoah case was telling on her. One cup of coffee at home, the second already half-gone in her hand, and still the detective felt as though she had only just woken up. Her shoes clicking on the hard floors seemed unnaturally loud so early in the morning.

She turned the corner, and saw that the rest of the team was already sitting in the break room. Her arrival got little reaction. Hawkes was reading through what looked like a pile of interview transcripts. He raised a hand in greeting, but didn't break his concentration. Lindsey was making - god bless her - a fresh pot of coffee. Danny, for his part, was almost asleep on the sofa.

"Anyone seen Mac?"

Lindsey shook her head. "Not yet. Gruber said he was in his office, on the phone."

Stella frowned. "Any idea what it was about?"

"Something to do with the cutbacks."

That, Stella knew, could not be good. Mac had already argued with their bosses several times over the issue. Their reluctance to sanction the more expensive tests was delaying cases, and sometimes damaging them. It could only be a matter of time before criminals started going free because penny-pinching bureaucrats didn't think their cases were important enough. Stella took a long, angry swig of her coffee.

Lindsey poured three cups of the thick black slop that served as lab coffee. She passed one to Hawkes, whose eyes never lifted from the transcripts. The other spare, she placed on the coffee table in front of Danny. His hand snaked out automatically to grab the cup. One eye cracked open, and looked around.

"Why are we here so early?" he moaned, half-asleep still.

Stella took a seat. "You'd have to ask Mac that." she said.

He had requested that they all come into work an hour early. It was unusual enough that they had all immediately agreed. Stella couldn't shake the feeling that there was bad news coming.

Her fears were confirmed when Mac appeared in the doorway moments later. His stony expression did not bode well. Hawkes set the transcripts aside. Lindsey sat down next to Danny, who gave every sign of being completely alert. Without saying anything, he had gotten everybody's attention.

"The lab has ordered each team to cut one CSI position." Mac announced bluntly.

The CSIs looked at each other, not sure how to react. It was a ridiculous move. They were already overworked. Making three CSIs unemployed would create an impossible situation. Cases would pile up.

"I'm not going to do it." their boss said. He looked at each of them in turn. "If they want this so badly, they will have to do it themselves."

"Mac-" Lindsey started.

He held up a hand. "They are not going to be happy about this. Expect there to be action within the next two days."

"What do you think they're going to do?"

The older CSI sat on the edge of the decrepit armchair. He felt like it looked right now. The pressure of the Davies investigation, combined with the political problems within the department were beginning to show on Mac.

"I don't know." he said, honestly. "Best case, they agree to reinstate some, if not all of our budget."

"And worst case?" Danny asked through a mouthful of coffee. He sheepishly wiped his chin clean of a few escapee drops.

"Worst case -"

Stella jumped in. "You get fired."

Mac avoided her gaze. He couldn't see any other way to deal with the problem. The department had successfully ignored the actions taken by the lab techs, and were now moving in on the individual CSI teams. Each of the team leaders had agreed to refuse the terms laid out to them. With that decision, they had all been aware that their own jobs were at risk.

"They can't fire you." Lindsey said.

He looked her in the eye. "Yes they can. And they will."

* * *

A huge figure strolled with surprising grace into the reception area of the lab. He stopped by the desk and coughed politely. The receptionist, a fifty-two year old woman half his size, took the shock in her stride. She smiled politely, and asked what his name, and what his business in the building was.

"My name is Frederick Arlborough. You've been interviewing my employer." The tall man's voice was upper-class East Coast, and undeniably educated.

"May I-"

He smiled, cutting her off without rudeness. "Blake Donnelly. Owner of Pharoah's. We had an unfortunate incident involving a young lady yesterday."

The receptionist nodded. "Someone mentioned you might be bringing in security tapes."

"I suspect they will also want to talk to me."

Just as the receptionist picked up the phone to call through about Arlborough's arrival, Stella Bonasera appeared. She called the CSI over, and explained the situation. Stella listened carefully. For all her powers of discretion - considerable when they needed to be - she couldn't quite keep back an expression of shock at the towering figure hunched up in one of the small waiting chairs.

"Mr Arlborough." the receptionist called.

He stood, and made his way back over to the desk. "Yes?"

"This is Detective Bonasera. She's working on the case." Turning to the detective in question, the receptionist completed her introductions. "Detective, this is Mr. Frederick Arlborough."

Stella's frown must have been transparent, because as she shook his hand, the big man grinned. "You may have heard of me as Ozzy…"

"Oh." Stella said, unable to hide her surprise again. "Ozzy…"

"Not quite what you expected? That's alright, Detective, I quite like that." The grin appeared again, transforming Aldborough's face. "I think some of my colleagues are confused by me too. Anyway - I brought the tapes you wanted."

He lifted a small hold-all onto the reception desk. It was full to the brim with tapes. The system was clearly an old one. Stella just hoped that the tapes weren't as old. The more often they were reused, the more degraded and useless the images became. Sometimes, old images were not completely extinguished. It made any form of identification, even at a basic level, very difficult.

Stella shook herself out of her sudden gloom. With the recent news from Mac, and the failure to identify Jenny, she was in a particularly bad mood. "This way Mr Arlborough." she said, gesturing in front of her.

He shook his head. "Ladies first. And please, call me Ozzy."

Stella managed to control her response this time. She had been expecting someone with more muscles than sense. This well-mannered, softly spoken man with an upper-class accent was very far from that. Picking up the bag of tapes, Stella lead the way.


	10. Chapter 10

DISCLAIMER - Not mine…

A/N - OK - after this little scene, which I had to get posted, this story will be taking a break. I'm not sure where its going, and although people are definitely reading, I don't really know how its being received. So, until a considerable amount of the rest of the story is written, I will not be posting any more on this. Sorry guys.

* * *

The chief looked away as the small group of representatives from the city's law enforcement faced him. They were mostly union reps - two uniformed officers, three detectives, and a tech - but the final three were not. Don Flack, Mac Taylor and Sid Hammerback looked as angry as the others. _Perhaps_, the police chief though, _the cutbacks weren't such a great idea_.

"You know that none of this was my first choice?" he said, sighing heavily. "We are so far over budget, there was no choice."

"There is always a choice." Mac said. "This lab cannot afford to lose three experience CSIs, and for the sake of-"

The chief interrupted. "I know." He sat back in his chair. "I was ordered to make savings."

"And this was the best you could come up with?" Flack snapped.

"Don't take that tone with me Detective. I could have made far more dramatic changes."

Mac sat down in the chair opposite the chief, and made himself comfortable. The older man was beginning to look quite unsettled by the situation. Mac leant his elbows on the desk.

"The team leaders have all agreed - we will not be picking any CSIs for redundancy. If you want this done, you'll have to do it yourself. We will not be a part of this."


	11. Chapter 11

DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - Sorry about the ridiculously short chapter. Just trying to get this story kickstarted again. Hope you enjoy. Please review.

* * *

Stella rubbed her eyes, trying to refocus on the screen .The tapes Ozzy had delivered to the lab were endless. Despite recruiting two junior techs off the clock, with the promise of takeout for the next week, she was still only a fifth of the way through it all. The mysterious Jenny had appeared a few times, but often the tapes were too degraded to tell if there was anyone on them at all. They had confirmed her presence at the door, at the entrance to the VIP room and at the VIP bar. Otherwise, they could not account for her whereabouts. Given the state of the system Donnelly's club was running, Stella wasn't surprised. Buying a brand new one for a place that size could be incredibly expensive.

She supposed that public safety came second when you were as obsessed with money as Donnelly appeared to be. Mac had told her about his other interview. She knew her friend had no reason to lie, but Stella's own encounters with the man clashed wildly with this other, more benevolent side. She sighed heavily, and pressed play.

"Found anything yet?"

Stella shook her head. "Most of these tapes are useless."

Flack sat down next to her. "I was just in with the Chief."

"And?"

"Mac, Bradwen, Sid - there were quite a few of us."

"And?" Stella said. She pressed pause. There was no way she could hear whatever Flack had to say and pay full attention to the screen at the same time.

The detective avoided her gaze. "Mac threatened to quit."

He didn't say it, but Stella knew he was thinking about the Timothy Baywater case all those months ago. Seeing Mac the way he had been then had weighed heavily on them both. The same combative behaviour was rearing its ugly head now. The real question was, had Mac done this because he thought it was right, or had he done it because he was angry? The first option wasn't altogether comforting, but it was better than the second. The second meant that Mac's bad shoulder wasn't the only mark Baywater had left on him.

"You think I should talk to him?" Stella asked softly.

Flack brushed at a dust mark on his jacket. "He listens to you."

"Yeah. Except about that."

That was the elephant in the room. That was Timothy Baywater, and the letters that had come so close to killing Mac. Stella wasn't sure she was the right person to speak to him about this, and said so.

"Who else? Stella, he trusts you." Flack said.

"It _needs_ to be someone else."

The detective caught on. He raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Stella. "You want Peyton to talk to him, don't you?"

"She can get through to him."

He had to admit, it was inspired. Flack nodded, and stood up. He would go and speak to Peyton.

"What if it is just Mac making a stand? You have to admit, it's just like him. And he's not doing it alone. All the top guys are in on this."

Several of them had been seen coming and going from Mac's office the last few days. Stella thought they had been up to something. If she was truthful, she had expected something like this. It was the noble, and perhaps even the right, thing to do.

He nodded. "Yeah. And what if it's not?"


	12. Chapter 12

DISCLAIMER - Not mine, hence being very much in the red.

A/N - A little bit of development on the personal side, rather than the case - but rest assured, more is to come. Reviews very very welcome. Large slice of Victoria sponge if you do - it's one of the few things I cook well! Cup of tea too - Victoria sponge doesn't go at all well with coffee.

p.s. Thanks to seabee - your reviews have revived my interest in getting this and 'Rigour' finished. By the way, cherries with chocolate please... ;-)

* * *

Peyton hadn't been quite sure what to make of her conversation with Don Flack. He had taken her aside just as she was leaving work. The medical examiner had been forced to clock in and out religiously for the past few weeks, so it came as a surprise when Detective Flack had insisted that she stay a few moments longer. He had been unusually wary. When the whole tale was relayed to her, Peyton understood why. She was determined to make Mac talk about whatever was bothering him, be it the case, the politics in the lab, or Baywater's shadow, still hanging over him.

Unsurprisingly, Mac was still not home when Peyton started preparing dinner. He often stayed very late at the office. Since being with her though, he had come home more often. Peyton tried not to think about the implications. Her mind, she knew, ran on overdrive at times. The medical examiner picked up a vegetable knife and took out her frustration on a particularly offensive carrot.

The girl from the club had been shown - cleaned up, obviously - on the news. Peyton hoped somebody close to her had been watching. An anonymous burial had always struck her as the saddest of things. Even if life had been difficult, she felt that someone should remember you were there. Shaking her head, the British woman decided that her melancholy was misplaced. She was simply concerned about her - about Mac. Peyton allowed herself a mischievous grin. She had never been comfortable with the term "boyfriend" with regards to Mac, and she was pretty sure he didn't like it either. Still, it brought to mind possibilities of what Mac had been like when he was just a boy.

A key turning in the lock made her jump. He walked through seconds later, looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Wincing, Mac took off his coat and hung it up. He turned to walk towards the sofa. The CSI stopped short. He sniffed the air experimentally. Peyton's smile widened as he made his way to the kitchen, pretending not to have noticed her.

Mac dodged Peyton, and made for the stove. Bubbling away in a pan, the pasta sauce looked and smelled very inviting. Before he could sample it, Peyton rapped his knuckles with a spatula. Mac whipped his hand away.

"Hey!" he said. "That is my saucepan."

"And it's my recipe. One I shall never teach you, if you don't-" Peyton spotted one of his hands, holding a spoon, sneaking towards the sauce. "-_leave that alone!_"

Sheepishly, Mac dropped the spoon. He settled for drawing his partner into a hug instead.

"Long day?"

He sighed. "You could say that."

"Stella and Flack are worried about you."

"I know."

That flat, unemotional admission surprised Peyton more than she was willing to admit. She wanted to respond. Experience told her that waiting for him to speak was far more likely to yield results.

"Do you know why?"

"I'm not stupid."

"Really? Because I heard you're the man who threatened to quit his job. Again."

Mac's eyes clouded with anger. "I did that on principle."

"It sounds an awful lot like you did it for the sake of it."

"Do you find these cutbacks acceptable, Peyton? Do you find the fact that bureaucrats are endangering our cases _acceptable_?"" he snarled furiously.

The air crackled with tension. Peyton and Mac stood two feet apart, staring at each other, for a few minutes. Suddenly, Mac snapped the link. He whirled away, slamming his open palm into the wall on his way out of the kitchen. His partner stood, stunned, still holding the spatula in her left hand. It was a moment before Peyton could move.

She threw the spatula aside, and tore off her apron. Pasta sauces always seemed to end up everywhere, and she had wanted to look good. The angry medical examiner stormed out of the kitchen, after her errant partner. She checked the bedroom first. As a teenager, that had always been Peyton's own refuge of choice. Finding it empty, she had calmed herself before strolling casually into the living room.

He was sitting on a dining table chair. Mac's whole apartment, including that chair, coordinated. In his left hand, Mac held a thick cut glass, half-filled with whiskey. Another glass sat on the table behind him. Peyton took the hint. She sat down and took a long drink from her glass. The liquid burned her throat fiercely. A low chuckle caught her attention. Mac had been watching her reaction to it. Peyton's eyes narrowed in mock irritation. She would show him. Medical school didn't have such a prodigious drinking reputation for nothing. Peyton's mind wandered to old memories, but she was dragged back when Mac took her hand.

"I'm sorry." he said quietly.

Peyton frowned. "Yes, I would hope so."

"Really sorry."

"I think-"

"Really, really sorry."

She grinned, and swatted her partner playfully on the arm. His smile widened.

"Mac-"

"I know I overreacted." he said. "And I know you're just worried. All of you. It's just -" Mac threw up his hands. "I think they might fire me."

"Why would they do that?"

He shrugged. "Money. Politics."

It probably didn't help that Mac himself had caused controversy in the past - not least over the Clay Dobson case. Though he had been exonerated, it was impossible to change some people's minds about him. Peyton put down her glass, and took both his hands in hers.

"They won't fire you."

"And if they do?"

Peyton sighed. "Well, for one thing, they would be shooting themselves in the foot. You might be the boss, but everyone respects you."

"Not everyone."

"No." Peyton's mouth twitched. "Well you are the boss." A grin spread across her face. "A tough boss too."

Mac looked up. "Are you mocking me?"

She stood up, trying to look innocent. "Me? Never." she said over her shoulder.


	13. Chapter 13

DISCLAIMER - Still not mine, despite all the crossed fingers. Damn.

A/N - Feeling very refreshed as far as this story goes… Oh, that reminds me. I am concentrating on this story rather than 'Rigour' from now on. Thanks to those who have reviewed already. And double thanks to seabee - maybe even a cookie! I suppose I can spare one… ;-)

* * *

Peyton looked over her shoulder anxiously. She knew that Mac was with the doctor, getting his shoulder checked again, but she couldn't help being nervous. It went against her nature to sneak around behind his back. Still, the medical examiner slipped into the CSI break room, unnoticed. The others were already there, waiting, like a very small committee. She smiled briefly at the analogy, but despite the humour, couldn't shake the heaviness that had settled over the last few weeks. It corresponded directly with her partner's poor mood.

The English woman took the only seat left, a fold out chair, around the coffee table. Stella had taken the armchair, and Flack was sprawled casually across the sofa. With a grunt, the detective sat up. He had been more than ready to take a short nap. It had been a very long week.

"So?" Stella asked. Her tension was noticeable - tapping feet, slightly chewed fingernails - and very unlike the capable woman everyone knew her to be.

Peyton shook his head. "I tried, but he flew completely off the handle."

"Mac?"

"Yes! He slammed his hand into the wall-"

"Mac punched a wall?" Stella said in shock.

"No. Open palm." Peyton demonstrated in the air. "Anyway, he apologised right after that, but I couldn't bring it up again."

Flack let his head fall into his hands. He had decided overnight that all their concerns were unfounded. That Mac's sudden willingness to throw away his job was indicative of the man's principles. Peyton's report suggested otherwise.

"One of you two should try to talk to him." she said.

They exchanged glances, trying to figure out who might be the best option. Stella was very good friends with Mac, but that might only encourage him to put up a front. Flack, on the other hand, could broach the subject on a more professional level. It gave him both proximity and distance.

"OK, OK, I'll talk to him. You-"

"Hey guys. You seen the weather?"

They all turned to see Danny investigating the contents of the coffee pot. There was still a very small amount left of the previous batch. It poured thickly into Danny's cup. His nose wrinkled, but the need for caffeine overcame disgust. The CSI turned to take a seat. It was then that he caught onto the tension in the room.

"Uh - did I interrupt something?" Danny asked slowly.

Stella exchanged a wary glance with Peyton and Flack. "Nothing." she said. "How's the case?"

Danny looked from one suspiciously blank face to the next. He sipped at his lukewarm coffee, wincing at the taste.

"Guys, what's going on?" he asked. "I'm not stupid. You're talking about something, I come in, you guys shut up? Who's in trouble?" It clicked as soon the words were out of his mouth. "This is about Mac, isn't it? Is he in trouble?"

Peyton shook her head. "We can't talk about it, Danny." she said.

"I could help out if-"

"We really can't talk about it."

Danny looked away. He sighed, and nodded. The CSI swallowed the last of his cold coffee and put the cup down next to the sink. He paused in the doorway. It wasn't in Danny's nature to walk away from a problem, and it rankled. _Still_, he reasoned reluctantly, _it really isn't your business_. The others looked back at him, giving nothing away. He left the break room at a pace. There was important evidence waiting for him.

The others relaxed visibly. Stella turned to Peyton and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. The medical examiner offered a weak smile. She had no idea how to proceed.

"I'll talk to him." Flack said. "But don't blame me if it doesn't work."

Peyton nodded. "Take it slowly. He's very on edge."

"No kidding."

* * *

Danny held up a tiny, broken ceramic statue. He examined it, close up. There were tiny black spots marring the surface. The CSI carefully swabbed one of them, and sealed the sample away. He turned the piece in his hands, and checked for any possible trace evidence. Finally, when Danny was satisfied that there was nothing more to see, he set the statue down.

Steady hands were invaluable for the next step. Danny selected a small brush, and twisted open the tub of aluminium powder. He dipped the brush into the powder, and tapped the excess off against the side of the tub. Gently, he skimmed the tip of the brush over the statue's shiny surface. It fell away, onto the desk. Danny persisted. He dusted every part of it. A smile spread across his face when the powder suddenly clung in tiny lines to the statue.

A fingerprint was formed out of the aluminium powder. Danny set down the brush, and picked up some tape. He pressed the tape against the statue, and made sure nothing had been missed. Danny prided himself on the quality of his work. There was no exception here. As the CSI sealed the tape, a perfect partial fingerprint became clear.

"Gotcha." Danny said to himself.

"Got who?"

Danny jumped, and whirled round. He would have snapped, but stopped himself when he saw Mac standing in the doorway. The older man looked faintly amused.

"Fingerprint." Danny explained, holding up the tape. "Found it on a broken statue."

"You think it belongs to the thief?"

"Might do." he said. "And it might not. I got samples from everyone who lives in the house, plus the close friends and family who visit all the time."

"Good work Danny." Mac said.

He walked over to the younger man, who was now labelling the fingerprint, and filling out the necessary paperwork. Sometimes it amazed Danny just how much of their jobs involved filling in forms and writing reports.

"This is the statue?" Mac asked, indicating the broken ceramic in front of them.

Danny nodded. "Got a sample of - something - off it too." He gestured towards the swabbed sample. "Black, tacky. Don't know what it is yet."

"Huh. Sounds like an interesting case."

"I guess. How's the Aida Davies thing going?"

A scowl appeared on Mac's face. "Not well. Most of the evidence we have is either coincidental, or easily explained."

"So, chances are, it was someone she knew." Danny said. "And that's true for every murder."


	14. Chapter 14

DISCLAIMER - not mine. borrowed.

A/N - Last chapter for at least a few days, because I'm going away this weekend. Might write a bit while I'm there - I'll be able to update more quickly when I get back then. Hmm. Anyways, here's chapter fourteen. There were times when I thought this would never get finished - or if it did, that it would be quite short. As it turns out, I have much of the plot planned out, and I reckon there's a good eight or ten chapters left in it. Mind you, I suppose you all know, these things have a mind of their own… Please review! It's just so easy to do…

A/N - Sorry, had to correct this AGAIN, because I forgot which detective was supposed to be attached to which case. Oops.

* * *

Edward Davies, for whom his granddaughter Edie had been named, was a much more dignified soul than his son. Dressed simply in dark trousers and a dark shirt, he cut a sombre figure. A_ppropriate_, Bradwen mused, _considering the situation_. The detective had separated Edward and his wife. In a marriage lasting as long as the Davies' had, there were probably any number of secrets. Bradwen was betting a few of them concerned their errant son. 

"Mr Davies. Glad to see you." Bradwen said.

The elderly gentleman stood, respectfully, and shook Bradwen's hand. They both sat, and settled themselves down. Flack knew he had to tread carefully. Edward Davies was an entirely different set of morals and behaviours than most of the people he spoke to.

"Detective, may I ask how the investigation is proceeding?"

He offered a sympathetic face. "It's going. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Davies."

"Thank you." Edward said. He paused for a moment. "I assume you will require samples from me?"

"And your wife." At the older man's icy look, the detective explained. "Standard procedure, Mr Davies, nothing to worry about."

"Ah. This process is very unsettling."

"I'd be more worried if it didn't unsettle you, sir."

The mixture of sympathy and candour seemed to sit well with Davies, who made a noise of agreement, and relaxed a little. He clasped his hands together, so as to keep still. Bradwen was glad to see that the man was at least slightly nervous. Saying it and feeling it were two very different things. The detective hadn't been lying. Some of the most disturbing interviews he had taken part in were with suspects and witness who simply didn't feel the pressure these things were supposed to exert.

"You're Blake Donnelly's father, correct?"

The man's eye twitched. "Marcus Davies' father, yes. And Edie Davies is my granddaughter."

"Did you know Aida well?"

"Not that well."

That surprised Bradwen. From what they had been told by the dead woman's neighbours and workmates, Aida had spent a lot of time talking to Edward and Violet. Edward evidently caught onto the detective's surprise. He began an explanation of the complex relationship that had existed between them all.

From the way Edward told it, their son had been at fault for the marriage break-up. Marcus, or Blake, had cheated on Aida a number of times. Added to that his fondness for staying out late, drinking and gambling, and it was no wonder that the marriage hadn't lasted. On the other hand, the old gentleman painted a very different picture of Aida than the one they already had. Rather than being a quietly strong, slightly neurotic woman, Edward's depiction of Aida had her as a mildly obsessive and paranoid woman, with a weakness for dramatics.

"I love my granddaughter." Edward stated firmly. "And I - was fond of Aida." he sighed. "But she was a strange woman. Not easy to get along with."

Bradwen made a few notes. "Did she mention anyone hanging around lately? Someone harassing her?"

Edward frowned. "No." he said. "But Edie did. I thought the child was simply following her mother's lead. That's why we take her so often - the girl should have some contact with normality." He stopped short, as if hesitant to speak ill of the dead. "Aida had been getting better. Perhaps she wanted to deal with this on her own."

"On her own?"

"Aida was always phoning my wife and I for advice." Edward said.

"She wasn't confident with Edie?"

"Aida never wanted children. It was only at my son's insistence that she kept the child. Of course, that wasn't the story we told. No one wanted Edie to hear one day that -" Edward paused. "Well, you know."

"Of course."

"In any case, Aida's phone calls were becoming less frequent. We thought she was learning, finally, to cope."

The whole tale was very sad. Bradwen wondered at the ability of a man to talk a woman into having a child he then abandoned, only to change his mind again later on.

"You know that your son wants access to his daughter?" Bradwen said.

Edward nodded. "Yes. And when he proves to have changed his behaviour, we will welcome him back with open arms."

The interview proceeded, with Bradwen learning little of use. He knew that Blake had visited his parents on several occasions over the past few months, but had never got past the front door. Eventually, the detective held up a hand. Edward's slow, gentle drawl stopped smartly.

"What about you, Mr Davies?"

"What would you like to know?"

"When were you last in New York?"

Edward raised an eyebrow. The old man was unflappable. "I was last in New York, detective, to pick up Edie. That would be - four and a half days ago." he said.

"And your wife?"

"The same. I prefer to have company and conversation when I travel."

Bradwen scribbled down notes. He smiled genially at the old man. "Mind if we take those samples now?"

Edward matched his expression. He leant forward, equalling the detective's physical presence. "Of course not, Detective Bradwen. What is it that you require?"

Bradwen motioned for the officer at the door to let Mac in. He brought a small case with him, containing everything he needed. True to his word, Edward Davies was a model case, never offering anything but cooperation as Mac took samples from under his fingernails, inside his mouth, and of his hair. Finally, he fingerprinted the old man. As the last of his work was done, the CSI offered Edward Davies a tissue to wipe his hands free of ink. With a nod, the old man took it, and rose to his feet. Bradwen watched him go. There was something unsettling about the man, he decided.


	15. Chapter 15

DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - Just a short keep-up chapter, from which the rest of the story shall hopefully spring. Yay! But much reviewing would be very welcome….

* * *

Mac wondered if there was some sort of cosmic force deliberately making this case difficult. He muttered something uncharitable under his breath. After taking samples from Violet and Edward Davies, Bradwen had attempted to obtain confirmation that the pair were in Vermont at the time of Aida's death. So far, they had not managed to reach a single real person. Everyone who could have confirmed the alibi was out, it seemed, including the young lodger who stayed with them. 

At his insistence, the team had gathered around a table in a conference room. They had in front of them every printed and handwritten piece of information available that pertained to the various cases they were working on. The samples taken from Violet and Edward were already undergoing testing. Flack, the CSI noticed, looked uncomfortable. He wondered at that for a moment, before turning his attentions back to the matter at hand.

"You know-" Stella was saying to the detective. She stopped short, recognising that Mac was ready to begin.

He stood in front of them - Flack, Danny, Bradwen, Hawkes and Stella - and cleared his throat. "Stella, how's the Pharoah case going?"

She sighed. "About as well as yours." she said. "There's not much to find, and there's hardly a lead. No dental records, no fingerprints on file, nothing. Nobody knows who this girl is."

"Or they're not telling." Bradwen said. For a normally positive man, he was doing an excellent impression of someone who was permanently miserable. The detective was resting his elbows on the table, and his head on his hands.

"It's possible."

"OK. Here's where we are. We have the Aida Davies murder, Jenny Doe's death, and Danny's home invasion case. Please, tell me we're somewhere with that." Mac said.

Danny realised with a start that Mac's words were directed at him. "Uh - yeah. Got a print off a broken statue, ran it, came up with a name. Jay Bradley."

"Jay Bradley? He's out of prison?" Bradwen said in surprise. He sat up a little straighter.

"Yeah. And in the wind. PD has his description - which matches the one given by our vic." Danny said.

Before anyone could reply, a young officer came crashing through the door. He stopped only when Mac grabbed his shoulders. The young man was already out of breath and red faced from running, but he managed to blush an even deeper red. Halfway through his stuttering, incoherent apology, Mac held up a hand.

"Stop talking. Take a deep breath. Then give us your message." he said.

Flack kicked out a chair. The young man collapsed into the seat. He put his head down between his knees, and tried to get his breath back. The others waited on tenterhooks.

"I - uh - they told me to get here as fast as I could." the officer managed to blurt out. He took a deep, calming breath. "They said to run."

Bradwen rolled his eyes. He recognised the officer as a new recruit. "I think they were having a little fun with you. They could have called, right?"

Reality dawned. "Oh."

"Never mind. What is it you have to tell us?"

"Um-" the young man breathed deeply. "-the owners of the play centre say they only saw Violet Davies. Not her husband. And the neighbours swear he wasn't at home two nights in a row. The second night-"

"Was the night Aida Davies died?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you officer."

The young man grinned briefly. He turned deep red again, and headed clumsily for the door. His embarrassment was tangible.

"Officer." Mac said, making the word sound like an order.

The young man stopped dead. "Um - yeah? I mean - sorry-"

"Impressive running." the CSI said, a smile twitching faintly at the corner of his mouth. "Just try calling first, next time."

He nodded sheepishly, and shot off down the corridor. Mac shook his head. It seemed incredible that he had ever been as young and gullible as that, but he had. Turning towards Bradwen, he saw the detective was already thinking over the new information.

"I'm on it." The detective leapt to his feet. "I really hope it wasn't the old guy."

With Bradwen chasing after Edward Davies, and Danny relieved of his robbery case - bar a few outstanding pieces of evidence that were with lab techs anyway - Mac turned the conversation back to the other case on the table. Stella explained again that without an identification of the body, they had very little to go on. They were still chasing down the hundreds of potential witnesses; the people who were in the VIP room when the fight broke out.

"I have Scott Walker coming in later, to give us his version of events." Stella said.

"Scott Walker? Scott "I hit home runs for fun" Walker?" Danny squeaked.

"Try to keep calm. The others all spoke to us already. Most of them were too drunk to remember anything, and I'm betting they weren't all just drinking."

Mac nodded. "You assured them you weren't looking-"

"Done." Stella said. "They still didn't remember anything. I think they're genuine."

"I'd have to agree." Flack offered. "I spoke to two of them - they were still hungover, two days later. Their boss was about ready to commit murder right there."

"So where do you want me, boss?" Danny asked.

Mac gestured towards Flack and Stella. "On the Jenny Doe case." He paused. "You _can_ interview Walker without drooling?"

Danny was about to retort angrily when he caught the twinkle in Mac's eyes. "Oh, very funny, boss." When the others burst out laughing, the young man scowled. "Very funny."


	16. Chapter 16

DISCLAIMER - Still not mine, bother...

A/N - Thanks to all those who have read, and especially to those who have reviewed. It's always nice to read that people are enjoying your work, and that they are excited about the story you're writing (melosa - things are indeed heating up. Annoyingly, I have three endings to choose from, and I really don't know which one I want... botheration). There should be VERY BIG revelations within the next two chapters, and I'm expecting a conclusion to present itself to me any day now. Maybe. Anyways, I'm at work tomorrow, so probably should... ah hell, I'll scribble notes... hehe.

* * *

Scott Walker, like so many people in the public eye, had a carefully cultivated image. He was the roguish playboy, a man just as suited to expensive clothes, drink and girls, as to the playing field. Though he was by no means the central star of the current Yankees roster, Walker was still a well-known name. Children idolized him. Women threw themselves at him. Behaviour such as that which had landed him in trouble the night of Jenny's mysterious death was a disturbingly common feature of his short career.

It was this public arrogance that had lent him the aforementioned roguish air. Of course, Danny knew that a certain amount of it was nonsense, but he had expected a confident, brash young man. The guy who turned up in faded, ageing jeans, an ancient band t-shirt with the design peeled off, and dirty, patched trainers wasn't anything like the Walker image.

When asked to, the young man waited patiently in one of the interview rooms. He stood respectfully when Flack walked in. The detective shook his hand.

"This is about Pharaoh's, right?" Walker asked.

Flack glanced up from his notepad. "It's about a dead girl, Walker."

"I read about that."

Despite the best efforts of both Donnelly and the police, the papers had jumped all over the story. The involvement of Walker and his buddies, however coincidental, made it particularly juicy. Add in the fact that Jenny was probably underage - well, it was irresistible.

"You know anything about it, Walker?"

"Scott is fine. Uh - detective, I can hardly remember being in that bar, let alone a particular girl." the baseball player said. He had the good sense to look apologetic.

Flack frowned. He took a photo of Jenny out of the notebook, and slid it across the table. "What about now?"

Walker picked up the photo. He studied the cold, mottled gray face. Just as carefully as he had picked it up, Walker set the photo down. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"I think I saw her. Maybe bought her a drink." he said. A light went on behind the young man's eyes. "Yeah. A mojito."

"Mojito? One of those in Pharaoh's, that's gotta run, what, ten dollars?"

"Fifteen." Walker said.

Sid Hammerback's meticulous examination of the body had revealed the remnants of mint leaves in her stomach. The admission from Walker was unexpected. Perhaps it was a generalisation, but Flack had thought the famous baseball player would look first to protect his reputation and career. _Hey_, the detective mused, _maybe he figures he's already in enough trouble_. Rumour had it, Walker's boss was looking to get rid of him at the first opportunity.

"Tell me about the fight."

Walker sighed. "That was my fault. I hit on this girl. The guy that was with her told me to back off, and I didn't. I know, detective, I'm an idiot."

Flack raised an eyebrow. "Refreshing honesty. So why'd you do it?"

"I don't really know. To blow off some steam? There's no excuse - this time I really got myself in trouble." Walker said.

"Looks like the girl was underage." Flack said. "You catch a name?"

Walker shook his head. In a low voice, he explained how he had come to buy "Jenny Doe" the mojito. When the fight had first broken out, there had only been a quick scuffle. One man had shoved another, and that was about it. Unfortunately, as Walker explained, he had been gesturing wildly during his argument, and had caught Jenny in the face with a stray hand.

"She had this nasty red mark. I felt like such an ass, I offered to buy her a drink." The baseball player ran a shaky hand through his messy hair. "If I had known she was underage…"

Flack was starting to like this guy. He was trouble, that much was obvious, but he didn't attempt to hide it. He made no excuses for his behaviour. Sure, the guy was stupid, but he'd admitted that too. For a man with his reputation, Scott Walker was turning out to be someone with depth. The detective had good instincts, and his said Walker had nothing to do with Jenny's death. Still, he had procedures to follow. His boss wouldn't take "I don't think he did it." very well as an answer.

"So you buy her this drink…?"

"She knew who I was. Made a play for me." Walker said.

"This happen a lot?"

"You ever read the New York gutter press? All the time. Women anywhere from way to young, right up past way too old. I guess it goes with territory, but it can be a real pain in the ass." Walker sighed heavily. "She wasn't my type. Too obvious. I might have been interested even six months ago, but times change. Y'know?"

Flack tried not to grimace at the assumption that he knew what it was like to have beautiful women throw themselves at him. "Sure." he said.

"Anyway, right after I said no that girl, the other one came back. Said she was sorry about the trouble with her boyfriend, but she really wasn't interested. I said OK, he thought I was flirting, a fight broke out."

"That's it?"

Walker pushed back his chair, and crossed his arms. "That's it." he said softly.

As Flack concluded the interview - there were routine questions he had not yet covered, and the small matter of corroborating Walker's story - Danny and Stella watched from the observation room. "You think he's telling the truth?" Danny asked.

Stella shrugged. "No reason not to. Sid found a bruise on her cheek, and he's admitted that much." she said.

"Could just be to throw us off."

"Or he could be telling the truth. We got nothing."

Stella sympathised with her younger colleague as he swore vehemently under his breath. They turned their attentions back to the interview as Flack brought it to an end.

"So, Walker, is there anything else you remember about this girl?" he asked, tapping the photo. "Anything weird about that night?"

The younger man scratched the back of his neck. He thought seriously about it for a few moments, and paused. "There was-"

Flack leant forward. He was eager to hear whatever the baseball player had to say.

"The bartender? He was arguing with her. Just before I accidentally hit her."

"Which bartender?"

Walker described, in surprising detail, the head bartender at Pharaoh's. The detective found himself unsurprised that Allan Rossiter had more to do with this than he had confessed to.


	17. Chapter 17

DISCLAIMER - Not mine. Darnation.

A/N - Am mostly doing my Eeyore impression today, because I've had to change my plans to work abroad within the next few years. Although a possible solution has been found, I am still grumpy. Anyway, I thought I would get this little chapter posted. It's really at least four hundred words below the optimum length I like to post, but ... I'm sleepy, and in a fight between sleep and writing, writing takes a nap. Please review.

* * *

When Flack finally left the interview room, Danny and Stella were waiting for him. They walked back to the lab, talking about the case on the way. Flack was of the opinion that Rossiter had a bigger hand in Jenny's death than they had first thought. Danny, on the other hand, believed the bartender could not have had the time to kill the girl. Not while a brawl threatened to trash Pharaoh's. The CSI's argument was that Rossiter was covering for somebody else. Perhaps even his volatile boss, Donnelly.

They were so busy arguing over the case - Stella occasionally pitching in, but mostly watching with detached amusement - that they didn't notice the young girl waiting for them at the lab entrance.

"Detectives!"

Stella turned first, and the others followed. A nervous young woman wearing a college sweater stood by the reception desk. She was chewing one sleeve. Her bedraggled dreadlocks and half-destroyed old Converse added to the effect.

"Can we help you?" Detective Bonasera asked, more abruptly than she meant to.

The young woman edged forward, but backed away again as soon as Stella moved. "I - it's about Jenny."

The two CSIs exchanged surprised glances. Though the girl was wearing a college sweater, they would have laid money on her not being a student. She followed as Flack led them gently to a quiet side room. It was rarely used, owing to the fact that it was poorly ventilated, and got very hot. For now, though, it would do. The girl took a seat as instructed, but waited until the others had all followed suit before relaxing even a little. Stella wondered what could have happened to make the girl so skittish. Studying her more closely, she revised the question. She wondered what the girl had taken that had made her so skittish.

"What's your name?" Flack asked.

The girl stopped chewing her sleeve, and attempted to look more respectable. "Liz Thomas. I'm - I mean, I was - Jenny's roommate."

"Her real name?" Danny brusquely requested.

"Jennifer Ryan." Liz said. She nearly started chewing her sleeve again, but thought better of it. The girl sat on her hands instead. "Jenny Ryan. She was my roommate."

Flack risked a quick, despairing glance over at the CSIs. "Do you have contact details for her family?"

The college student nodded. She extracted, with difficulty, a small, screwed up piece of paper from her pocket. Brushing it off slightly, she handed it over to the detective. The process wasn't promising. Flack was pleasantly surprised when he discovered the names, addresses and telephone numbers for Jenny's parents, brothers, sisters, and grandparents. It was written in tiny, neat script.

Though it was Flack's responsibility to inform the family, the CSIs would be on hand. Murders, even one as apparently public as this, were very often committed by a member of the victim's own family. They would cast an eye over all the evidence, before deciding how to approach the family.

"I was there."

Liz's quiet words silenced the room. They all fixed her with disturbed stares.


	18. Chapter 18

DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - Now officially my longest story, though it has a few chapters left in it. I'm thinking not much more than five or six. Yay! Anyways, I am very tired, so I'm going to sleep now. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Hawkes found himself inexplicably disappointed as he stared at Edward Davies through one way glass. The old man's fingerprints were a match to those found in Aida's apartment. He admitted, after realising they had debunked his alibi, to being in New York at the time of the murder. Mr Davies told a story that stretched credulity. According to the old man, he had flown to New York in order to have a serious discussion with his ex daughter-in-law about her parenting skills. It sounded to Hawkes as though the elderly pair wanted full custody. 

In any case, Edward claimed that after having a blazing row with Aida, he had left the apartment, and flown back home. Residents in the apartment block confirmed that a man matching his appearance had stormed out of the building late at night. Their argument had woken a number of people up. Hawkes had thought that the old man was a pretty decent guy, but between lying to them and trying to take a child away from her mother, he wasn't so sure. It grated on the CSI's nerves. He was usually a very good judge of character.

"It wasn't him."

Hawkes sighed. "I know, Mac. So who was it? We have nothing."

His boss fixed him with a steely gaze. "Don't give up. We still have a lot to do."

"Like what?"

"Fred McAllister is waiting for us." he said.

The shorter man waited for a moment before following Mac Taylor out of the small observation room. He distracted himself by people watching along the way. Hawkes was struck by just how many people came through the area.

There were two uniformed officers leaning against a wall. One was drinking a small plastic cup of water. They were discussing last night's embarrassing defeat - _must be Rangers fans_, Hawkes thought wryly. Then it went from one extreme to another. A man of perhaps sixty years, sat on a plastic seat outside another interview room, was muttering to his younger wife about the incompetency of the NYPD. Hawkes hoped they had nothing to do with the two relaxed officers.

Before he knew it, they were standing in front of a tall, burly man. Fred McAllister topped six feet. He was just starting to lose the muscle tone that had evidently been his defining physical feature. His face was hard set now, but that seemed unnatural to him. Hawkes studied his eyes for a split second. McAllister was hard to read. He was controlling himself, probably trying to stop the inevitable flood. He had, after all, just lost his partner.

"Mr McAllister?" Mac said patiently.

The tall man stood, wiped his hands absent-mindedly on his shirt, and shook their hands. "Fred is fine. Really."

"Alright, Fred, would you like to come with us?"

Hawkes wasn't surprised at his boss' gentleness. Mac had a reputation as a tough man, but the former medical examiner had seen him display another side to his personality often. _Not_, Hawkes thought with an inward smile, _that he'd really want you spreading that around. Nothing like a reputation to get people doing what you want - when you want. _He followed Mac with renewed enthusiasm, bringing up the rear of their little procession.

Once settled in Mac's office, of all places, McAllister's stony exterior softened. His lip wobbled till the man bit it. It was as though he considered emotion a form of weakness. Hawkes supposed that it was, amongst some circles. They went through the usual pleasantries - making coffee, and so on - taking just a few minutes to make sure the process was as smooth and painless as something like this could be.

Finally, McAllister had had enough. "Detective, I need to know. What do you have so far?"

Mac sighed. "We can't tell you too much, except that we are progressing well with the case."

"How do I know you aren't just saying that?"

"You don't. You have to trust us to do our jobs." Hawkes said. He glanced over at his boss, and was glad to catch a slight nod.

McAllister thought for a moment. "You can't tell me what you've done. You can't tell me whether you have any suspects. You can't tell me what you have in the way of evidence. What can you tell me?"

"Exactly what we have done, Mr. McAllister."

"I need to know what happened!" McAllister shot back. His voice was rising, getting louder and more agitated.

"I know, sir, I really do, but we can't tell you anything. There are rules about this. Telling you anything could compromise the investigation."

It was then that the possibility of being a suspect hit the big man. He stood up abruptly. As McAllister turned away, running fingers through his unruly hair, he growled from the back of his throat. He span round, and kicked the chair. It slid a couple of feet, before teetering on one side. Hawkes made to move. Before he could, Mac had rounded his desk. He stood in front of McAllister, who had to have five or six inches and maybe thirty pounds on him.

"You need to calm down." Mac said. He reached out to place a hand on McAllister's arm, but it was knocked away.

Hawkes caught Mac's eye. The older man nodded his head towards the door. He needed to get reinforcements. Reluctantly, Hawkes gave in. He sneaked towards the door. Just as he reached it, the CSI caught a flash of movement reflected in the glass. He span round, just in time to catch Mac ducking McAllister's wild swing.

The fight was over before it began. McAllister overdid his punch so much that his body weight was thrown off balance. He stumbled against the desk. Rather than getting ready to try again, the big man slumped. He covered his face with his hands. Mac caught Hawkes' eye, and shook his head. There would be no need for reinforcements. They simply needed to sit and listen to McAllister. It had dual purpose. The man would find it cathartic, and it might yet yield important information.

* * *

Jennifer Ryan had been a classic party girl. She slept around, though not that much, and could hold her drink. Though she was underage, she had been to many of the biggest bars and clubs in New York. Ryan came from a well-off, though not rich family. Her expensive clothes had been bought for her by a devoted ex-boyfriend. He was living in France with his new girlfriend, and her three-year-old little boy. She had been known to take advantage of men and women alike, but when it pleased her, could be both sweet and reliable. 

The young woman sitting in front of them was probably much the same. However, as they were finding out, she was under the influence. That, Stella thought with a detached air, or she was suffering from an atrocious hangover. She had regained a bit of colour since they had sat her down, and provided her with refreshments. A Diet Coke, a cup of water, and a pastry someone had foolishly left in the break room, were enough to make her more coherent at least. Stella, Flack, and Danny waited as the girl finished the final swallow of Diet Coke. She paused for a moment, before pushing the can aside.

"You feeling better now?" Flack asked. He was trying very hard to be gentle, but her performance so far was getting to him.

After her sudden statement, Liz had turned sheet white. She had turned tail and sprinted to the nearest bathroom. Stella, as the only female in the trio, had been nominated to go check on her. She had found the college student throwing up. The CSI had sent Danny for supplies. Then, being as calm as she could be, Stella let Liz freshen herself up a little before guiding her back out of the bathroom.

"Much, thanks." Liz said. Her tone was quiet, almost whispered.

"What can you tell us about the night Jenny died?"

The student sat on her hands. "Uh. I'm older than she i- was. Twenty one last fall. So I was there legally." She glanced up at the detective. "Anyway, Jenny had been nagging me to get out more. Figured, what the hell. She takes me to three different bars, and we ended up at Pharoah's. She knew the guys on the door, and at the bar, so we got in free. Got a drink free too."

Her soft, lilting voice explained how the night had progressed. It tallied with Scott Walker's story, but was elaborated upon. According to Liz, she had been after Walker from the time they had first seen him. As soon as Walker appeared at the bar, Jenny had muscled her out of the way. It was, Liz explained, one of the few downsides to being friends with Jenny. She was too used to getting her own way.

"As much as I liked him," Liz said, "I would never ditch Jenny over a guy. Much less hurt her."

"We believe you. We still need some samples from you." Danny said apologetically.

"That's fine. Take whatever you need."

"After we've finished talking."

"Alright. Where was I?" Liz murmured. She nodded vigorously when Stella reminded her. "Yeah. Jenny went after Scott, and I decided that I was going home early. This was just after the first fight broke out. Me and Jenny had argued." Her voice cracked. Tears started to trickle down the college student's face.

It became apparent very quickly that if Liz Thomas was hiding something, she was a brilliant actress. After the first few tears fell, it was like a flood. Stella, for one, was almost certain that the girl was telling the truth. Her story fitted well with what other people in the bar, particularly Scott Walker, had told them. Stella lost herself in her mind for a few minutes. _We need to talk to Allan Rossiter again_, the CSI thought grimly. She would have preferred to avoid that.


	19. Chapter 19

DISCLAIMER - Not mine. Just borrowing.

A/N - Heyhey, have now gotten a little bit inspired! (cue another bout of writer's block) Hence another chapter so soon. The story is a little dry, perhaps, compared to alot of what's on here, but for the number of talented writers about, I feel there's a distinct lack of case-based stories. I've given it a couple of goes, but I'm sure others can do better! Come on boys and girls, the water's fiiine! (Please excuse the strangeness of this little a/n, I have drunk quite alot of caffeine...mmmm, tea...there's not much else do when it's raining as much as it is here. Bah humbug.)

I am looking to possibly collaborate on a future story, so if anyone's interested, please send me a message, and I'll get back to you. In the meantime... please read and review. Thankyou and goodnight. Or day. Depending on where in the world you are...

* * *

McAllister had calmed down, even apologising to both CSIs for his outburst. He had spoken at length to them about Aida. Most of what the distraught man said was useless in terms of the investigation, but one interesting nugget of information came up. Hawkes had mentioned their visit to Aida's workplace. McAllister's head had snapped up straight away. He clenched his fists tightly. Sheldon recalled how the man had stopped them with a few choice, angry words.

_McAllister looked almost as angry now as he had when they first walked into the office. His eyes shone brightly as he gritted his teeth. The CSIs exchanged glances. Hawkes wished he had chosen the seat furthest from the big man._

"_Did you meet that bitch, Litchfield?" he growled. Their surprise must have shown on their faces, because McAllister gave a short bark of grim laughter. "Guess she was all sweetness and light, huh?"_

"_What should we know about Rose Litchfield?" Hawkes asked curiously._

_Mac held out a hand to stop the answer. He wanted this done properly. With a quick phonecall, and short break for more coffee - Hawkes didn't like to think what that was going to mean for his sleep later - he made sure that procedure was followed. Bradwen was unfeasibly fast. Only fifteen minutes had gone by when the detective showed up, with a mouthful of bagel._

_He sat down with the three of them. Bradwen took out his pen and pad of paper, to take notes. It was, as Hawkes well knew, procedure to keep strict records of any information you came across. McAllister was more than ready to talk._

"_Rose Litchfield screwed Aida over more times than I could count - and she wasn't the only one. They all pretend like it wasn't true, but Aida knew it, and so did I. They were jealous." he said, fiercely._

"_Jealous?" Bradwen repeated._

"_Yeah. She was quite a beautiful woman, Aida, especially when she made an effort, y'know? Real pretty. Litchfield hated that. She hated how good Aida was at her job too."_

"_They didn't get along."_

"_That's an understatement."_

_According to McAllister, Rose Litchfield had 'had it in' for Aida ever since the younger woman's worth became apparent. A wonderful opportunity had opened up in the company's parent firm. The bosses over there were searching for fresh blood. They had combed through a forest of applications, before stumbling across two in particular. Rose Litchfield's, and Aida Davies'. _

"_Litchfield played dirty. Spread rumours." McAllister said. "I know she went to see Aida a couple of times, saying that she wasn't good enough for the job."_

_Apparently the competition had become fierce. The bosses of the parent company - a name Hawkes vaguely recognised - had almost encouraged it. For them, the measure of an employee's worth was how much they wanted their job. Even if it meant infighting within one of their subsidiaries. Hawkes shook his head ruefully. That kind of cutthroat business attitude had never made much sense to the former medical examiner._

"_So. You gonna talk to the Wicked Witch again?"_

_Mac reflected McAllister's wry half-smile. "We will investigate any information we are given."_

_It was a neutral non-answer, and everybody knew it. Bradwen finished scribbling notes. He offered to escort McAllister out of the building. On his way to the door, the detective threw a look back at his colleagues. He was just as intrigued as they were by this new development._

Hawkes wondered what McAllister would do now. He was certain that the little girl - Edie Davies - would end up with her paternal grandparents. For all their faults, they really loved her. Social services were looking into it, but the CSI had an inside source. She had suggested that the grandparents would be a solid bet, were Hawkes a betting man.

* * *

Stella gritted her teeth as she walked into Pharoah's. The bar was already back to normal. Their crime scene had been released remarkably quickly. Though the CSI was confident in her own abilities, she knew that it was easy to miss something that you simply weren't looking for. The clean-up crew had been ordered to make note of anything that seemed out of the ordinary, but Stella was realistic. This was New York. Out of the ordinary things happened every day. It was part of her own love/hate affair with the city.

Finding herself in a room with Blake Donnelly definitely came down on the 'hate' side. Her work would never be compromised by her own negative feelings towards an individual, but Stella couldn't help the skin on her back crawling at the sight of him. _Well_, she smiled inwardly, _you've dated a few guys like him. You know exactly how to deal with Donnelly._

To his credit, the man in question dashed over to them. His face was serious, and his manner far more respectful than their previous meeting. Stella supposed being involved in two separate murder enquiries could do that to a man. She shook his hand. No sense in being petty. Flack, who stood next to her, did the same. If she loathed Donnelly, Stella was sure the detective hated him even more.

With a heavy sigh, Donnelly guided them away from the bar, and up a narrow staircase to his office. It was nowhere near as opulent as they had expected. A large desk dominated the room. Three chairs were rested against the wall, evidently for visitors. They were the hard plastic kind. Behind the desk, a small, cheap computer desk chair offered Donnelly a little more space. There were two filing cabinets either side of the desk, against the wall, and more files on top of them. The desk itself simply had a very full in/out tray, a flat-screen computer monitor and keyboard, a rolodex, a small lamp, a phone, and a neatly arranged set of paper pads and pens.

"Take a seat." Donnelly offered, as he slipped behind the desk.

The two detectives pulled up chairs, and made themselves as comfortable as possible. Flack was eager to jump right in. "Do you know this girl?"

He slid a photo of Jennifer Ryan - as the sweet college girl, not as the semi-infamous party girl who had met a sudden end - across the desk. Donnelly picked it up and studied it carefully. Considering his answer, the man shook his hand, and offered the photo back.

"No. I don't know who that is."

"You should." Flack said.

Donnelly's eyebrows raised sharply as he caught on. "That's Jenny? She looks so different."

"How much do you know about the day-to-day working of your club, Mr. Donnelly?" Flack asked.

"When I'm around? Almost everything. But you can't be everywhere all the time. I know things happen which don't - which shouldn't happen. They happen everywhere." Donnelly stared at his hands. "I'm sure more goes on in Pharoah's than I would like, detectives. It's simply that as much as I crack down, someone will always slip through the net."

Flack, despite himself, could understand that. There was no way to completely eradicate underage drinking, any more than there was to stop drug abuse.

Donnelly's eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking me this?"

"What do you know about Allan Rossiter?"

They had worked out a strategy for speaking to Rossiter. Going to him directly would have little or no effect. Speaking to his boss first, who Rossiter seemed afraid of, might.

"He's efficient, but I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him. That's why I rarely leave the club to him." Donnelly said. He smiled grimly at their confused expressions. "It may not make much sense to you, detectives, but I have only recently become aware of Allan's less appropriate actions as far as business is concerned. However - he does make me a lot of money."

"You think he lets in underage kids?"

"There's another kind?"

One look told Stella that Flack had appreciated the snippy comeback even less than she had. Their twin glares got through to the club owner. He ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head.

"Not deliberately, no. Allan is more devious than that." Donnelly cocked his head to one side. "Then again - if he was desperate…"

The club owner's expression darkened as he considered the ramifications of his head bartender being exposed as a murderer. Stella felt she could almost see the cogs turning behind Donnelly's stormy eyes. In that split second, she was reminded of Mac in the grip of a full-blown bad temper. The illusion was quickly gone. In its place was a strangely deflated Blake Donnelly. His projected slick image gone, he seemed no more a New York club owner than Flack.


	20. Chapter 20

DISCLAIMER - Not mine.

A/N - Here's a little chapter for you guys. Hope you enjoy. Must go do something useful now... like argue with stupid internet people over the phone... Grrr...

* * *

Rose Litchfield's real story, when she finally broke down and told it, was disturbing to say the least. At her age, she knew that companies were becoming more wary of taking her on. Pro-age movements were changing things, but for the most part, business remained the province of the young and the filthy rich. She had panicked when Aida Davies had started working alongside her. It all made a perverted kind of sense.

What didn't make sense was Litchfield's descent into bullying and stalking her young colleague. Prior to Aida's arrival, she had been very much an average working woman of her age. Tough, but amiable, and willing to work hard. Something like madness had taken hold of her. Litchfield freely admitted that her behaviour had been disturbing. She remembered sitting for hours outside Aida's apartment.

The new job that was being dangled in front of the pair like a golden carrot was too much. It sent her over an indefinable edge. Litchfield sobbed as she confessed to spreading malicious rumours, and reducing Aida to tears. She had been clever about it too. Nothing that could be proved. Nothing that couldn't be explained away in a perfectly reasonable manner. In fact, complaining about Litchfield had brought the wrath of management down upon Davies.

She was deeply sorry for her behaviour. That much was clear. Mac thought that he understood, in some tangential way. The fragile woman in front of them now was more afraid of herself than anything else. Her tears stopped immediately when Bradwen mentioned the night Aida had been so brutally murdered.

"I didn't kill her." Litchfield said abruptly. She cast her eyes down on the table.

"Ms. Litchfield-"

"Rose."

"Rose, what happened?" Mac asked. He tried to speak in as gentle a manner as possible.

"I went to see her. To explain - and to apologise."

The visit had not gone well. Rose's appalling behaviour had come back to bite her. She had tried to say sorry, but had been faced with a livid Aida.

"I think - I think I made her finally break." Rose said. "She went crazy, hitting me."

It was then that the faint scratches and heavily covered bruises became apparent. Mac wondered how he had not noticed them before. He shifted position uncomfortably. The pain in his shoulder was not getting any better. If anything, it had become worse. He decided to get it checked over again. The CSI quickly turned his attention back to the interview, scolding himself for the attention lapse.

"I left her there, alive and well. Just bruised. She was bleeding from her nose. It got all over the sofa." Rose said. Her voice was detached. She seemed to have separated herself from the reality of her actions and their consequences.

"What time?" Bradwen asked quietly.

"Around midnight. I had been wandering around the city for hours, trying to work up the courage to see her." Rose said.

Her story would be easy enough to confirm. The neighbours had been disturbed by Aida's earlier confrontation with Edward Davies. No doubt they would have been woken up by the fight Rose claimed had happened.


	21. Chapter 21

DISCLAIMER - Still not mine..

A/N - This chapter does not link very well with the previous one, so apologies for that. Also, it's pretty short (my regular readers will know that I prefer slightly longer chapters than this). It was a choice between rewriting AGAIN, or just uploading. I figured those who were reading this story had waited long enough! Anyways, it's leading up to the REALLY exciting stuff (at least I hope so!)... and a longer chapter, obviously.

* * *

The many bruises and scratches on Aida Davies' body had been a mystery, until Rose Litchfield's hysterical confession. Her story of a fight sparked by her own unreasonable behaviour rang true with the CSIs. The woman was vindicated when neighbours confirmed that she had left the Davies apartment at somewhere near midnight. The blood on the sofa matched her story too. It helped that Rose's poor upper body strength would have made dragging Aida around nearly impossible. 

All this meant that they were back at square one. Aida's neighbours had reported a third disturbance, at around one thirty in the morning. Unfortunately, there was no witness statement to go on, other than a vague 'he drove a red car' from a teenager who had spent too much time self-medicating.

Mac had declared a break. Bradwen hadn't been able to join them. There was still work that he could do. In the meantime, the CSI boss and four of the people who had worked on the case ate hotdogs from a street vendor. Hawkes bit into his with closed eyes. It was the first really good thing he'd eaten in forty eight hours. Somehow, snacks just didn't do it.

"So," Mac said, brushing away crumbs from his coat, "where are we?"

Lindsey, who was now officially back on duty, shrugged. "Nowhere interesting. Edward Davies - accounted for. Rose Litchfield - accounted for. Mysterious guy in red car - not accounted for." she said.

"Aside from nowhere interesting?"

"The neighbours have been a good source so far. Maybe we missed something." Danny offered.

"Good thinking. Bradwen's doing that now. Anything else?"

"We've been concentrating heavily on the victim. What about her ex-husband? He's involved in some-"

"Questionable." Mac muttered.

"-business, so he could have pissed off the wrong guys."

It was an avenue that they should have looked down earlier. Mac was furious with himself for not thinking of it earlier. He wiped his mouth with the tissue. The hotdog hadn't had its usual flavour. It was possible that the vendor had been skimping on the extras. More likely, Mac thought, that he was too wound up about the case and office politics to enjoy it.

"Look into it." he said, speaking mostly to Hawkes and Lindsey. The two techs stood by, trying to be inconspicuous. Mac looked at them. "Good work, guys."

He walked away before any of them could ask awkward questions about his meeting with the Chief. It had, as expected, been a total disaster. Though Mac had not been fired, he had been shown just how serious the brass were about cutting costs. They had offered a deal. Keep your entire staff - but everyone takes a seven per cent pay cut. Mac couldn't see how it would work. Other labs, relatively close by, would pay a lot of money to get their hands on experienced CSIs like Danny Messer, or specialist lab technicians like Louise Richmond.

Watching him go, Hawkes and Lindsey were not fooled. They exchanged worried glances, and resolved to tackle the issue when they returned to the lab. Perhaps, Hawkes thought diplomatically, after we've looked into Blake Donnelly's business partners. With Mac Taylor in that kind of mood, it was sensible to do as he asked.

* * *

Stella flicked a tiny scrap of paper against the wall. It only made it halfway, before drifting to a halt. She sighed. This day was turning out worse than the last. With Blake Donnelly finally cooperating, the investigation should have taken a turn for the better. Instead, they were grinding to a halt. The final autopsy report - missing only a couple of tests that took some time to perform - had been delivered. There was no significant evidence indicating who might have caused Jennifer Ryan's death. Given that result, Stella had managed to persuade Sid Hammerback to take a second look. No doubt it would come back to bite her - medical examiners were under strict controls these days, and Mac was trying to reduce the number of clashes the lab had with their bosses. 

"Find anything interesting yet?"

Stella turned round. She shook her head. "Not a damn thing."

Flack slumped into the nearest chair. "Me neither. This case is a nightmare. There's nothing to go on."

"Rossiter - he has to be involved."

The detective grimaced. "More good news. He's disappeared."


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer - Not mine.

A/N - I know the sections are short - my fault for wanting to move thing along quickly! But the story should be wrapped up within a couple of chapters, not much more. After I have finished this and Rigour though, I will probably not be writing anymore, at least for a good long while. It's partly because I have alot of stuff going on, and partly because I'm just not getting any new ideas. Sorry. On the other hand, if I do get any ideas, it'll give me a really excellent excuse for procrastinating on my other stuff. Hmmm...

Oh, by the way, the italics in the second section indicate action in another room, not a flashback. Was the easiest way of flitting between the two.

* * *

Stella rubbed at her tired eyes, willing the words on the page in front of her to swim back into focus. She had volunteered her services for the investigation into Blake Donnelly's business associates. Her own case rested on Flack and the PD finding Alan Rossiter. They had a trace on his car. It was a distinctive cherry red 1964 Chevy Impala, with a dented right fender and a broken left tail light. Rossiter himself was conspicuous. Standing at around six feet tall, and with perfect cheekbones, he was a guy you took a second look at. Stella sighed heavily. She hoped they found him soon.

"Hey, you with us?"

She looked up in surprise, to find Hawkes waving at her from the other side of the table. "Of course."

"Only you've been staring at the same piece of paper for the last ten minutes."

The older CSI winced. "Sorry."

Hawkes shrugged. He knew how frustrating it could be when an investigation went completely out of your hands. It wasn't as though his own was working out all that well. Aida Davies' third visitor – the one who had probably killed her – was still unidentified. They were stuck trying to comb through documents that made Hawkes' last attempt at a tax return look coherent, and they had been doing it for hours. With a thump, the files he had been holding landed on the table.

"This is so annoying." He muttered under his breath.

"Wait." Danny said.

The others watched, bemused, as the young man sifted through his own stack of papers. He finally produced a bank transfer record, and waved it triumphantly in the air.

"What?" Stella asked.

"Transfer of five thousand dollars to Alan Rossiter." Danny paused hesitantly. "What colour did you say his car was?"

Hawkes snapped his fingers. "Nineteen sixty four Chevy, for a bartender? Something's not right about that."

"Something's even less right about the fact that Blake Donnelly – a shrewd businessman – is paying his head bartender five thousand dollars on top of his normal salary." Stella said. "Something's going on here."

"Maybe Donnelly was paying Rossiter to keep an eye on his ex-wife." Danny suggested.

"Like a private detective, only more loyal, because Donnelly could just fire him from his day job." Stella said. "We need to speak to Blake Donnelly again."

* * *

The bar owner was subdued, wearing plain clothes. Stella guessed they weren't designer. After all, Donnelly was no longer trying to impress anybody. She was watching patiently from the observation room as Bradwen conducted the interview. Mac stood beside her, intent on the conversation.

_Bradwen__ produced the bank transfer record, still in a plastic wallet, and place d it on the table in front of Donnelly. The other man gave it a cursory glance, and looked up at the detective._

_"I know what you're thinking." He said, with a sad, wry smile. "Yes – I did pay __Rossiter__ to spy on my ex-wife once. It was before we were divorced. I thought she was cheating on me."_

_"This transfer is much more recent."_

_"I know." Donnelly scratched his ear absent-mindedly. "Contrary to popular belief, Detective, I am not a complete idiot." He took a closer look at the record. __"Five thousand?__ Ah. Yes. I backed my car into his in the parking lot. Alan was furious."_

_"You backed your-"_

_"That's what I said. I reported the incident. It was all worked out. __Five thousand for the damage.__ Alan drives a very lovely car."_

_"Nineteen sixty four Chevy."_

_"Yes. __Quite a vehicle.__ Seriously, I was furious with myself."_

Stella's attention wandered for a moment as she glanced sideways at her old friend and partner. He looked better than he had of late. She wandered if perhaps the situation with the Chief had been resolved. Remembering his earlier mood, the CSI decided that was probably a premature assumption. He caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. Stella smiled sheepishly. She could never get anything past Mac.

_Bradwen__ sat back in his chair, as if waiting for some unexpected truth to spill out of Donnelly's mouth. If he was, Stella could have saved him the time. Donnelly didn't seem to know a thing. He explained again, slowly and patiently, the exact details of the incident that had lead to the five thousand dollar payment. The CSI wondered vaguely if __Rossiter__ had deliberately found the highest possible quote for the repairs._

_"Really, that's it. I owed him the money." Donnelly shrugged. "Alan was always a good bartender for me. Efficient."_

_"Was?"_

_"He runs out on two murder investigations, one of them the death of my daughter's mother? He's fired."_

_"Seems reasonable."_

_Donnelly relaxed a little. __"Yeah."__ A thought struck him. "You know – after I paid Alan to spy on Aida – I always wondered about those two. Together I mean. But I always thought it was just me being paranoid. It – it was, right?"_

_Bradwen__ shot a barely perceptible glance in the direction of the observation room. "I have no idea, Blake."_

_"Yeah."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because – around about nine months later, my daughter was born."_

Stella raised an eyebrow. It was beginning to fit together now. If, as Donnelly claimed, he wanted to reunite with Aida, Rossiter would likely have known all about it. In restarting a relationship, they might well have shared a few secrets. Rossiter was one of them. She was having difficulty seeing the bartender as a murderer, but it was possible that he had lashed out in a moment of emotion. It became even more likely if, as Donnelly feared, little Edie was really his daughter.

"We really have to find that guy." She said.

"I agree, but everything that can be done is being done." Mac countered. "Go back to the club with Bradwen. Check if Rossiter really was there all night."

* * *

When Jennifer Ryan's body had first been discovered, Stella had managed to extract a copy of the shift schedule from Donnelly. She had glanced at it before returning to the club. The CSI was gratified to learn that it was accurate. Eric Hall, the impossibly young looking bartender, had also been working the night Jennifer Ryan died. He had been abrupt and moody then. Judging by the way his back stiffened as they approached the main bar, nothing had changed.

Despite the fact that she had been there before, Bradwen showed his identification and introduced them both. Hall scowled. His frown depended when the pair took seats at the bar.

"What do you want?" he asked, in a surprisingly light and anonymous mid-American accent. Stella still couldn't work out where the young man was from.

"We want to ask you a few questions about the night Jennifer Ryan died." Bradwen said.

"I already told your sidekick everything I know about that. Now if you'll-"

Hall never got to finish his sentence. Bradwen was on his feet, slamming both hands down hard on the bar. The young man flinched. He looked away from the detective's blazing eyes. Stella laid a calm hand on Bradwen's shoulder.

"Hey." She said. "He's a jerk. Don't sink to his level."

The detective glanced sideways at her, and nodded reluctantly. He sat down again. "Have some respect, huh, kid?"

Hall swallowed nervously. "Uh – sure." He said.

"So, about the night Jennifer Ryan died."

"What do you want to know?"

"In your statement, you said that you spent some time in the private bar, because it got so busy in there." Stella made a point of producing a printed copy of it. "You also said that Alan Rossiter never left the bar. Not once."

Hall looked away. He might even have turned his back on them, if Bradwen hadn't chosen that moment to stand up, and lean on the bar. Sweat started beading on Hall's forehead. He shot a glance from Stella to the detective. The CSI rolled her eyes.

"Just answer the question."

"You didn't ask one."

This time Stella wasn't going to stop him. Bradwen leant both elbows on the bar. He grinned at Hall. The expression reminded the CSI of a cat just before it pounced on a mouse. The detective picked up a stray shot glass and began sliding it from one hand to another.

"You know what obstruction of justice means? Impeding a murder investigation? Two, actually. We can get him on two, right?" He didn't wait for the answer. "Yeah, I think we can. And that's nothing compared to what will happen if we find out you're covering for Rossiter with full knowledge of what happened."

"Okay!" Hall said, raising his hands in defeat. "He told me he had to go visit his girl." The young man shrugged. "Everyone knew that meant the boss's ex. Rossiter was obsessed with her. We got drunk once, and he told me all about it."

"All about what?"

Hall's face was a picture. "Uh – that he thought the kid was his?" he said, in a tone reserved by fools for speaking to fools. "Everyone knew about that. Except the boss, but he must have had some idea." The bartender looked over both shoulders, and leant closer. "So? Was the kid his?"

Stella didn't even bother to reply as she dragged Bradwen away from the young man. Some people just never learned. They walked out to car in silence. For her part, Stella was mulling over the nugget of information Hall had provided. Rossiter had motive, means and opportunity. He was already missing, along with his distinctive car. She felt a familiar stab of urgency. If they didn't catch up with Rossiter soon, they might never catch up with him at all.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer - still not mine

A/N - Sorry it's been so long since I updated - I was out of ideas. Things should be wrapping up in the next chapter. Maybe the one after, depends how it goes.

* * *

Mac glared at the clock, willing it to go backwards. It was already very late. Sometimes, as with his current case, he felt as though the days could not last long enough. Flack's attempts to find Rossiter and his cherry red Chevy were proving unsuccessful. The Chief, of course, displaying little or no patience and understanding, was demanding results. Mac thought that he failed to appreciate one tiny fact. If the investigators could range from idiotic to genius, so could the criminals. Rossiter was no genius – but he was no idiot either.

The CSI chewed his lip thoughtfully. He had been reviewing both cases – Davies and Ryan – and was getting an unnerving sense that neither of them had yet fully unraveled. With that uncomfortable thought in his head, Mac turned off his desk lamp. He was reluctant to be caught working so late again. It set a bad example.

On his way out, Mac gently shut the door. He nearly hit the ceiling as a hand clamped down on his shoulder. With a scowl, he whirled round and glared at Stella. He had been half-aware that somebody was around, but these cases were distracting him.

"That wasn't funny."

She schooled her face into something approaching seriousness. "Of course not."

"At all."

"Keep telling yourself that, Mac." She said.

Mac rolled his eyes. He gestured for them to walk on, and listened as Stella filled him in on the information she had gained from Eric Hall. They reached the break room. Mac, who had been following Stella's lead, sighed at the sight of Danny, Lindsey and Sheldon hunched round the small table. He coughed deliberately. The reaction might have been funny, if he had been in the mood to laugh.

Danny leapt up, forgetting there was a table between his knees and standing. The younger man sank down, wincing. Sheldon, for his part, had been half asleep. In an attempt to look awake, he tried to sit up straight, misjudged, and nearly tipped his chair over. Finally, Lindsey, who actually had been asleep, simply jerked her hand away from her face, forgetting that it was supporting her head.

"Why are you all still here?" Mac asked. He was trying to remain calm.

"We want to solve these cases, Mac." Lindsey said. Her voice was still slow and drawled from sleep.

"There's no overtime." He said. "The Chief wants to offer us another deal. No overtime, and a pay cut across the board."

"You still gotta fire someone?" Danny asked warily.

"No."

"That deal sucks."

"I know." Mac paused. "Don't take it."

They all waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Evidently, Mac would explain when he was good and ready. Before anyone could stop him, their boss was striding out of the room, his shoulders tight with tension. Danny started to get up. A strong hand stopped him. The young man looked down to see Hawkes shaking his head.

"Let him be." Hawkes said. "We should all go home. Get some sleep. Eat something. We'll come back at this tomorrow with fresh eyes." He avoided their gazes, knowing as well as they did that none of them would be able to get any rest that night.

* * *

Danny felt sick. It happened sometimes, when he had been awake for too long, without proper meals. His stomach rolled, and the young man groaned. It had seemed such a good idea at five am to come in and start working early. He sat up, much to his stomach's dismay, and swallowed thickly. Now was not the time to give in. When the case was over, he would take a day. Glancing over his shoulder in the vague direction of Mac's office, Danny wondered whether his boss should be persuaded to 'take a day' as well.

"Oh God. Remind me why I do this job?"

Danny turned round, smiling weakly. Flack looked about as good as he felt. "Morning."

"Shut up Danny. Where's the coffee?"

He watched as the normally steady detective fumbled around for a mug, and the coffee pot. Danny had made some fresh only fifteen minutes ago. It would still be drinkable, for a change.

"Anyone else in?"

"Mac. Stella, I think." Danny said.

"I should've guessed. I'm gonna go see him. Think you can round up Stella?"

Danny struggled to his feet, and tried not to throw up. He was surprised to find he felt a little better. No doubt it was the prospect of focusing on something other than the questionable state of his stomach, and his lack of sleep. With a reluctant sigh, he followed Flack out the door, grabbing more coffee on the way. If Rossiter was going to be caught – and young Jenny's killer uncovered – then it would be a hunt fuelled by caffeine.


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer – I keep telling you, they're not mine!

A/N – Thank you for the reviews, they have been extremely helpful. This is not my favourite chapter by any means, but I wanted to wrap things up. One more, maybe an epilogue after this, and that's it for the story. Aside from completing 'Rigour', I have no new ideas, so if anyone would like to suggest something, please, send me a message or say so in your review.

* * *

Sid unclipped his glasses and sat back on the stool, sighing heavily. It wasn't his error, but in passing the case on to his apparently slapdash colleague, he felt that he'd had a hand in this. The medical examiner had called CSI straight away – it was best to get things out in the open. He just hoped there wouldn't be too much fall-out. Jennifer Ryan's cold, blue-tinged body lay on the table in front of him, covered with a thin white sheet. Her family had requested a second autopsy, for reasons Sid didn't quite understand. He was just glad now that they had.

Just as Sid was checking the clock for what seemed like the hundredth time, Stella and Flack strode through the doors. They looked better. He assumed that was thanks to a night's sleep and a decent meal, but it was just as likely to be a renewed sense of focus. He hated to ruin that.

"Glad you're here."

"Your message sounded urgent." Stella said. She sounded concerned. "What's the matter, Sid?"

"There has been-" he rubbed his eyes with his sleeve-"a mistake."

"What kind of mistake?" Flack asked, now alert.

Sid fixed them with a steady gaze. "Jennifer Ryan died of natural causes."

When they had first begun investigating the case, it had seemed obvious that they had a murder on their hands. Jenny Ryan's head was half-caved in and there was high velocity blood spatter around the body. On that assumption, it seemed as though the medical examiner in charge – Sid had passed the case on – had simply skimped on the details, with the result that he had missed something vital.

Stella, who had been uncharacteristically fidgety, stopped cold. "What?"

"Jennifer Ryan died of natural causes. It looks like SADS." Sid rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.

"Sudden Adult Death Syndrome? I thought there were symptoms."

"A common misconception. Sudden _Arrhythmia_ Death Syndrome doesn't necessarily present with any symptoms at all. If they do occur, they most often start – with women – in the mid teens."

They looked down at the cold, blue-tinged body of a beautiful young woman and realized that none of the extraneous knowledge mattered. It wasn't really important that Jenny Ryan had been drinking underage, or that she had chased after a man without thought for her friend. What was important was that her death had been preventable.

"She was a time bomb." Stella said softly.

Sid nodded. "Never has a truer word been spoken."

"How the hell did this happen? I've got an autopsy report on my desk, saying that Ryan was murdered, in cold blood." Flack snarled furiously. He was pacing up and down, running a hand through his short hair.

Sid couldn't offer any adequate explanation for that. It couldn't have come at a worse time, with the department heads ready to cut jobs. Incompetency would be the best excuse they could have hoped for. He could see the reports now. 'Streamlining for greater efficiency.' He kicked himself for ever letting his colleague take on the Ryan case.

"Sid – how many other cases has this guy worked on?" Stella said.

He didn't think she expected a reply, but he provided one anyway. "Since he got here? A hundred or more. He's pretty new, thank God, or we'd be talking about a much higher number."

"So that's-"

"One hundred cases we need to go over again."

* * *

The officer tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, trying to remember all the words to 'Enter Sandman'. He was bored to tears. For some reason – one he couldn't quite fathom – everyone had decided to drive like angels today. The voice of reason inside him that sounded worryingly like his mother scolded Officer Hadley.

"God, is no one breaking the law today?" He muttered, having given up trying to hum Metallica's greatest hits. He'd already worked his way through Led Zeppelin and the Stones.

His car, which had seen better days, was deeply uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Hadley's sergeant wasn't a sympathetic man. It was that car or the unemployment line. The young man's fingers started drumming out Johnny Cash songs – or rather, one of the four he knew well. He was halfway through 'Ring of Fire' when a speeding car caught his eye. With a quick upward glance and thank you to the sky, Hadley was ready.

Just as he pulled out onto the road, a thought struck him. Hadley strained for the memory. That morning, as he'd walked in, Sergeant Coombes had reminded them all of a particular car they were supposed to look out for. He stepped hard on the accelerator, and grabbed his radio, yelling at the controller . The radio, unfortunately, was in just as poor condition as the car.

"What was--I--you--" the voice hissed and crackled.

Hadley swore. "I am in pursuit of a cherry red Chevy, license plate BR 1327." He waited for a second, and concentrated on swerving around a slow-moving pickup truck. The driver swore vehemently out of the window. Hadley took a second to memorise the license plate. He would probably forget, but it was worth a try. "That's a cherry red Chevy, BR 1327."

"—our--." Suddenly the crackling stopped. "That's the-"

"YES!" Hadley snapped furiously, fed up with radio signal codes. "Heading north-east. Send back-up." He threw the radio down, and hurled the car round another slow vehicle. He was starting to catch up with his prey.


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer – Not mine. Just borrowed.

A/N – Last chapter of Breaking Bonds, although there are two rather glaring points where the story is not quite finished. This could mean an ambiguous reading, it could mean an epilogue (although I really would not count on that), and it could mean another story altogether (so the loose series would be 'Poison Pen', 'Breaking Bonds', and this third story). Not sure though. OK, please enjoy, please review. Thanks to those who have reviewed, especially if I have failed to message you personally – I'll get round to that eventually!

* * *

Stella's fingers drummed against her thigh, tapping out a tune she had already forgotten the lyrics to. It had woken her up that morning, blaring out from a neighbour's clock radio. They were new to the building; had taken over the vacant apartment. She shifted position in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Twenty-seven minutes after the time her meeting with the Chief was due to begin, she was still waiting outside his office. It irked her that Mac was supposed to be here, passing on their decision about the pay deal.

If she was truthful, Stella wished she had been working the Rossiter case. Mac and Sheldon had left in a hurry. Their suspect was being chased by a young officer – Stella didn't think she'd caught the name. It was only after Mac had left that it occurred to either of them that he would miss the Chief's hastily called meeting. Stella checked her watch. Twenty-eight minutes. She sighed heavily, and started tapping her fingers in earnest. The Chief's personal secretary glared over the top of her tortoiseshell rimmed glasses. Stella's hand froze.

The fall-out from the Ryan case would not help them. She hated to think what the lab could have done with the money that now had to be spent putting right the wrongs caused by their incompetent medical examiner. _One thing's for sure_, she thought grimly, _Sid's gonna be swamped for the next few months_. The CSI told herself to check on him every now and then – just to make sure the brass wasn't making his life too miserable.

Stella coughed. A dry tickle had built up at the back of her throat over the last ten minutes. There was a water cooler down the hall, but with her luck, Stella was sure she would be called in the instant that she left the waiting area.

"You can go in now."

Stella rolled her eyes. "Thanks." She glanced surreptitiously at the new secretary on her way in, and decided that anyone who worked that closely with the Chief could be forgiven for a bad mood.

She pushed open the door. The Chief didn't bother to stand. Instead, he waved a hand at the only spare seat. The others were filled with representatives from every CSI shift. At the back of the office, two of the more supportive cops were trying to appear inconspicuous. They acknowledged her with quiet gestures.

"Sit down, Ms. Bonasera." The Chief said dryly.

"Detective." She said. Her heart beat a little quicker – did that slip mean her job was on the line?

He made a conciliatory gesture as she took her seat. "Where is Detective Taylor?" he asked.

"Working." Her sharp reply sent a quiet ripple of nervous amusement through the room. "We won't take the deal."

A deathly silence took over. Stella shivered. A sharp look flashed across the Chief's eyes. The feeling that she had helped Mac commit career suicide came back, stronger than ever.

* * *

Flack stood over the body of the young officer. He shielded his eyes from the glare bouncing off the squad car window. Hadley's body was sprawled less than a meter from the door. He had been cut down by a bullet to the left temple. Flack leaned to one side for a better angle. He winced. The young man's mother would not be having an open casket. It was ugly. Blood, bone and brains were spilled out onto the dusty ground, staining it a dark, coppery red.

"Kid never had a chance."

"I know."

Flack shuffled his feet, and managed to look contrite. "What do you think happened?"

The older man stood up. A hand flew to his shoulder, rubbing it gingerly. Flack filed it for later discussion – now was not the time. He listened, instead, as Mac wove a tale that sounded all too likely.

_Hadley's car screeched to a halt beside the beautiful red Chevy. He wondered for a split second how much it would cost to buy one. A noise over Hadley's should caught his attention. He cursed himself for daydreaming. Even as a child, it had always been his biggest vice. He twisted in his seat to take a look. Part of him wanted to drive away, and wait for back-up. _

_The windshield exploded. Tiny shards of glass shot towards him, slicing tiny cuts into his hands; his neck and head; through his uniform. Blood trickled down his skin. Hadley ignored the itching sensation. His hands shook as he forced the key back into the ignition. Another shot hit the car. He started the engine. A third shot hit, lurching the car forwards._

"_Shit!" Hadley swore. He ripped the keys out, and yanked the door handle open._

_Just as a fourth shot pinged off the roof, Hadley rolled out of the car, onto the ground. The car door served as cover – not that there was any choice. The only other safe point was meters away, across open ground. The young officer steeled himself. He leant round the side of the door, gun in hand, and tried to spot Rossiter. A bullet flew past his face. It was so close Hadley could feel its movement. He hurled himself backwards. His heart was beating so fast, it felt like he could hardly keep it in his chest._

"_Where – the hell – are you?" he panted under his breath. The back-up was taking too long._

_Beads of sweat started to roll down his forehead. A combination of stress and a warm day, he supposed. Hadley shut his eyes. He wished he had listened to his mother, and applied for college – she had wanted him to become a science teacher, like his father._

"Rossiter picked him off, like a sniper." Mac theorized. "He really didn't have a chance."

Flack shook his head. "Poor kid."

They both knew, instinctively, that a more experienced officer might have survived.

"Yeah. Chevy's gone."

"So stopping here was what, tactics?"

"Just trying to shake Hadley any way he could." Mac said. "We'll get him, Flack."

The two men stood over the body of one of their own, watching as their fellow officers secure the scene. The stakes had been raised. Wherever Rossiter had gone, Flack knew that he could not stay hidden forever.


End file.
